The Menagerie
by ApollinaV
Summary: Hogwarts is full of strange and wild creatures. Most of them are professors. SS/HG Language.
1. Prequel

**The Menagerie – Prequel**

 _ **Twelve years prior…**_

Cletus Puckle was as unlucky as a wizard could get. He never won a door prize drawing. He always picked his boss in the Secret Santa Shuffle. If a doctor told him there was a slight chance he'd have a negative reaction to medication or need a more invasive operation, he was one of those special .3% of patients. Every-fifteen-minute busses missed his stop. The Hogsmead Public Library had been unable to accommodate his request of _The Great Adventures of Buddy Bowtruckle_ for four straight years. (The Higdon Public Library proudly owned six copies, none of which had ever been out on loan.) And the one time he thought an animal took a shine to him, it turned out to be the wanted prisoner, Sirius Black.

When called to clean up a 'helluva mess' in the Time Room, Cletus grabbed his broom and supplies. Prepared for the worst, (because he'd seen it all… and would never return to the Brain Room, not even for extra hazard pay hours), he just tilted his head in befuddlement at the sight presented. Dropping his pail with a clattering thunk, Cletus stared perplexed at the thousands of bitty Time-Turners flitting from their shelves, crashing to the floor with a great tinkling rattle… and doing it all over again.

"Cor," he whispered, not wanting to intrude on their dance.

Cletus looked over his shoulder, waiting for someone to appear who could explain what was happening. He felt the need to say to someone, 'Oi, do you see all that? Have you ever in your life?' Scratching the back of his head, Cletus thought the glittering gold looked kinda pretty. He wondered when the blokes from the Unspeakable section might show up. But they all seemed to be too busy with something going on in the Hall of Prophecies. Looking over his shoulder again and not seeing anyone, he shrugged.

Wand in hand, he halted their screaming death with an Impedimenta jinx. Humming a Warbeck tune, Cletus got to it. The large shards were easy enough to pick out and throw in the rubbish bin. But as he held up the contents of his dustpan, which glittered back to him with an unnatural shimmer, a strangely irrational thought popped into his noggin and started creeping and crawling around. Cletus swept the floor clean and walked back to his locker, his pail slightly heavy, not that anyone bothered to notice.

He'd never been so lucky in his life. Perhaps that was how luck worked. It saved up. Gathered. Waited until it could spring on you all at once, then BAM! It fluttered and rained down like gold coins from the sky. They hadn't been gold coins really, but they might as well have been. Thousands of shimmering time turners raining down, falling, spiraling, crashing, picking themselves up, doing it all over again. Like magic even. And wasn't he the lucky lad?

Some of them weren't even broken. There were big and bitty uns that were perfectly fine. Not a scratch, but according to his instructions, they were all broken and everything needed sweeping. Cletus was a wizard who took orders as they came. Not to worry, boss man. The good time turners were swept up with the dust. A quick call to his friend Dung, and he'd have good dosh for a few things. He'd always wanted a hundred Galleons worth of scratch cards.

Cletus was just finished mending a broken tile from the visiting Centaur herd when his boss came running at him, ruddy cheeks puffed out and blowing steam.

"Time turners…" he labored, barely catching his breath. "You… cleaned them?"

Cletus nodded. "That's right. Two hours ago."

"What did… you do with them?"

He wasn't one to lie. He hadn't been one to steal either. Cletus thought about telling about the bucket full of shimmering, golden sands and beautifully intricate time turners hidden in his locker beneath a dirty rag. But then, everyone stole. He couldn't get most the tools he needed because Bob kept hawking them down at the market. The last project he worked on never was finished because most of the materials disappeared.

And that was just how things were at the Ministry. Everyone pushed as much as they could as far as they could before they could get an official rebuke. It was kind of like a rite of passage almost.

Cletus opened his mouth and said with a wince, "I flushed them down the Floo."

"Oh god." His boss paled. That afternoon his boss received an official rebuke.

 _Delicate pieces of gold so fine_

 _Drop to the floor with a whine_

 _their silenced wail_

 _sitting in a pail_

 _Become the Lost Sands of Time_

Limerick by Apollinav


	2. Chapter 1

**Dear Reader,**

 **This story was written as a 3rd Person/Past-tense Choose Your Own Adventure, but as it was recently pointed out to me (Thank you, notwritten!) reader-insertion fics are _verbotten_ under the FFN TOS. I've pulled out my Editing Quill, and I'm in the cut-and-slash process. I hope the resulting fanfic will read coherently and blend all of the intermixed storylines *crosses fingers* I'll do my best, but yeah. I haz a sad.**

 **Also, this is a work of fanfiction based upon original characters and settings created by JKRowling. I'm not making a single Knut from this fic.**

 **The Menagerie – Chapter One**

 _ **Twelve years later...**_

It was a tradition, nay, a rite of passage within the Ministry of Magic to see how far one could push the very boundary of acceptable work behavior before receiving an official rebuke. To date, Hermione Granger, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, knew Miles Gordon openly drank illicit and hallucinogenic potions at his desk. At precisely 8:16 every morning, Grace Shubert pushed every bleeding button in the Northeast corridor left elevator. The bitch. One anonymous sender with atrocious spelling scrawled lewd suggestions into paper airplanes. Those brightened her day. And given the staggering amount of fornication in closets (she would never open a closet door again) she was both metaphorically and literally surrounded by fucking perverts. It was a wonder that they got any work done at all… but then, it wasn't really the job of the Ministry to do work.

So, it came as a bit of a shock when Hermione Granger, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, got sacked.

But that could have had something to do with timing, really.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had ridden into power on a ticket of reformation. Out with the old, in with the new, or whatever that meant. He was young, radiated power, and more importantly had an excellent tailor. In his years since taking office he had perfected several things; how to be properly photographed without looking posed, how to use the word _reform_ to achieve several radically different things at the same time, and how to successfully manage his electorate by simply being charming. Hermione had been charmed by him. Three times, actually.

The media was camped out in the Ministry reception hall awaiting the Minister's arrival and the announcement of the Peace Accords. Photographers obsessively checked their cameras. Reporters chatted politely while trading measuring glances. The stage was set; the freshly waxed podium faintly gleamed under the additional torchlight. Dignitaries were beginning to shuffle in; each kept their own council under a diplomatic mien. When the Minister arrived, all stood to applaud. Flashbulbs went off in quick succession. Beaming proudly, Kingsley took the podium and motioned for the audience to take their seats. There was a quick shuffle as he examined his speech –

"You filthy cunted warlock. You niffler-buggering syphilitic prick. _How dare you!_ " Hermione screamed from the other end of the reception hall.

Quills furiously moved across parchment.

Her desk was cleared before the workday officially ended.

One finds that when one loses one's placement, one becomes slightly lost. So much so, that one starts referring to ones' self in ways that are not a picture of mental health. And Hermione Granger was not a fucking picture of mental health. Every newspaper, scholarly journal, and tabloid rag had attested to that. Her lone support came from _The Quibbler_. Luna blithely suggested Hermione wasn't off her nut; she was merely infected with a hitherto unheard of parasitic creature with a bizarre name and an even less likely artists' representation. A sad occupational hazard of working with dangerous creatures.

When Hermione cancelled her subscription to _The Quibbler,_ she didn't bother to correct them that she'd never worked with dangerous creatures. Her magical creatures were wild, yes. Untamed, surely. But they were only dangerous because the Ministry had labeled them so. Just as they had labeled their new project a Peace Accord, as if they'd been at war. Which she supposed, given the way the Ministry treated _inferior_ magical beasts, it was.

Shacklebolt had found his Ministerial loophole. He could declare peace and push through unconditional surrender terms easier than he could push through new legislation.

When one realizes that one is well and truly fucked, perhaps that it is all for the best.

She had two weeks of wallowing. Good, grotty don't-change-your-smelly-clothes-wallowing. They included exhaustively long conversations with her mum late at night, which mum bore initially well, but after two weeks the hints became less subtle. This self-pitying phase was shortly followed by realizing that she WAS Hermione Granger, and though she hadn't used the name in a good many years, she hadn't trodden too heavily upon it, and her reputation was worth something. She even had her own chocolate frog card, so that made her some kind of somebody. And perhaps she ought to get her shit together then.

Without a clear idea of what this meant, she first cleaned her flat obsessively. Not just by picking it up and performing the kinds of spells she did when she knew Molly Weasley was coming over. That witch's keen blue eyes could spot a smudge of grease from a hundred yards off. Hermione cleaned, Muggle-style, furiously scrubbing the bathroom tile within an inch of its life until the entire flat smelled vaguely of bleach and desperation.

She only paused momentarily in her exertion, to think of the feral colony of house elves at Nott Hall, neurotically scouring every rough stone in that fortress that was mostly an ancient pile of ancestral rocks. When one of them bit her, she spent weeks quelling the urge to serve tea and biscuits to coworkers. She would have given anything then to lure one of them off with vague promises of bonding adornments and set them to work inside the Minister's office. Except for the whole _persona non gratis_ in the Ministry thing.

Once everything was cleaned, the binning began. If an item of clothing did not suit her purpose, need or contribute one hundred and ten percent (the goal set to her by the Ministry) to mission standards, it got binned. More things were binned than she was left with. All high heels were binned simply on principal. She was now the new, leaner, more efficient Hermione Granger, ready to re-make her life and wholly open to suggestion on that point. Fighting for equal rights for all creatures had come to a painful dead-stop, for the moment. She despaired to think of giving up her dream forever.

Within the week Hermione learned that despite the cache of her name, or her chocolate frog card status, she was virtually unemployable.


	3. Chapter 2

**The Menagerie Chapter Two**

There wasn't much to apply for in the Help Wanted advertisements. She had looked. There was hardly anything available to apply for in the Temporary Employment Agency, the Head-Hunting Wizard (who was, indeed, a head hunter), and through every back-alley way that she could think to look for a job in. It didn't take an Outstanding in Arithmancy to see that she was going to have to give up her flat and beg off her parents if something didn't come up soon.

One crux of the problem was that her specialty was so nauseatingly specific. There just weren't enough postings for people who spoke Gnomish as a second language. Or people who knew all the protocols for Highland and Lowland Hinkypunk. And she had literally written the field book on Pixie etiquette. Hermione was an expert in middling creatures. They were middling, X and XX classified, as in vaguely tolerable to wizards, not a commentary about their average size.

Merpeople, Werepeople, Vampires, Centaurs, Giants, Sphinxi and assorted partial humanoid creatures were their own section. Bloody arse-lickers, too. Beasts with wings, scales and tails were in another section which took care of most of the dangerous things such as Leithfolds, Hippogriffs, Erumpents, Chimeras, Skrewts, Basilisks, and so on. Bragging adrenalin junkies thought they owned the whole department.

And then that left the section of the Beast Division she supervised: the left overs. Middling creatures – or as she thought of it, everything out of a first year Care of Magical Creatures textbook. The cute and cuddlies: also known as prey. Bowtruckles, House elves, Gnomes, Goblins, Faeries, Doxies, Pixies, etc… and for some unknown reason she was stuck with Nifflers even though they had tails.

Could she take dictation? Yes.

Transcribe notes? Yep.

File? Sadly, yes.

It appeared that the only prospect of work on her horizon was in the stunning field of clerical work. Oh certainly, she had an impressive background in wizarding law, but it had been made outstandingly clear to her, _don't even think about coming anywhere near the Ministry or Wizengamot for the next half century._ And that pretty much put a damper on… well, everything.

Just when hope seemed beyond her grasp, an owl arrived. A Hogwarts owl. Bearing a very familiar thick envelope. Good things came out of Hogwarts envelopes. Opening up Hogwarts envelopes was like opening up happiness itself: entrance notifications, school purchase lists, Prefect notifications. Her day was instantly brightened just by the very welcome sight of a spotted barn owl clutching a Hogwarts notification. Hermione fed the owl a treat, and it clucked and nuzzled her hand as she read the parchment.

 _She had a job interview?_

She hadn't applied for a job at Hogwarts. She hadn't even known a position was available.

Hermione clutched the school parchment to her chest and cried out in joy, startling the bird. She scribbled a hasty reply, affirming that she would be at the castle for the interview and returned it to the owl. There was nothing that could blot out the sunshine within her chest.

At the appointed time on Monday afternoon, she wore her best set of robes, pressed neat with shoes buffed to a high gloss. Her hair and makeup was impeccable, understated, and professional; Lav Lav would have been proud. Other than a fluttering of nerves in her belly, she was ready – almost, nearly, not exactly. Truthfully, Hermione would have been much more prepared for an interview if she knew what position she was being interviewed for, but her letter hadn't stated that bit of information, and she hadn't been able to reach Minerva. Hermione waited outside the Headmistress' office with her fingers clutch together and tried not to chew on her bottom lip until Professor Flitwick, the Deputy, came to the door and scuttled her into the office.

The Office of the Headmaster of Hogwarts had changed very little over the centuries. Headmistress McGonagall's contribution to the office was the addition of a few hooked rugs, tartan pillows and a sleepy owl on what Hermione would always consider to be Fawkes' perch. Minerva herself was busy pouring over an endless stack of parchment when Hermione entered. Flitwick jumped into a chair in front of her desk and bade Hermione to do the same. After a moment, Minerva straightened her spectacles and put away her parchment, giving Hermione a thorough appraisal.

"You look well, Miss Granger, all considering. How've you been?" Minerva inquired steadily, pushing a length of parchment away.

The knot between her shoulders slackened slightly as Hermione relaxed. Case of nerves notwithstanding, it _was_ good to be at Hogwarts. The slightest promise of a warm, fireside chat with her old Head of House and mentor was enough to set her somewhat at ease. Hermione gave a slight smile.

"Oh, you know, I've been worse."

"Yes, of course, dear, but that was in wartime."

The Headmistress peered down her spectacles at Hermione. "What I am about to do, needless to say, Miss Granger, will not sit well within the craw of the Ministry, but as far as I'm concerned it is no business of theirs. This is my school." Professor McGonagall's tone was brusque, forceful and curt. She was startled for only the briefest of seconds. "Your work with magical beasts has been administrative in nature, has it not?"

"Yes, mostly." Hermione racked her brains for a more articulate answer. "My initial concentration was in securing the rights of House-elves who wished for autonomy, but then I was put onto other projects. Protecting Garden Gnomes from the cruel and brutal thrashings they receive, educating the public about the inhumanity of killing Garden Gnomes for sport. Unfortunately after that public service campaign, we actually saw an uptick in Gnomish violence. Then there was the push to resettle Doxy colonies instead of eradicating them…" she stopped when Minerva held up her hand for silence.

"Is this merely theoretical, or have you had any practical experience managing and caring for magical creatures?" she asked.

"Oh," Hermione drew a sharp breath as the other shoe dropped. _Care of Magical Creatures_. A warm blush suffused her cheeks. Oh. Oh, she would like that very much. _Oh, yes, indeed_. It was a damn good thing she chose a padded bra that morning because her nipples could be used as laser pointed weapons.

"It is incumbent upon every good manager to not just have a strong theoretical grounding, but also solid practical experience dealing with the creatures they serve. In my situation, I've not only served the middling creatures, but I have familiarity with all classifications of magical beasts."

Inwardly Hermione hoped the Headmistress wouldn't ask about a Cockatrice. It was the only Western beast she hadn't managed to get any practical experience with. On the other hand, she was the only person in the entire department who had any first-hand Basilisk expertise, so ha!

"That'll do, Miss Granger, that'll do." Her lips pursed tightly together. "I've no doubts about your work ethic or your accomplishments, I've been reading over them and I am impressed. Today, I'm prepared to offer you the prestigious position of Keeper of the Keys and Grounds."

"Not professor?" The words slipped out before she could censor them, along with all the disappointment and hurt feelings.

Minerva looked at her sharply. "Certainly not. You caused quite a scandal insulting the Minister of Magic, and might I remind you, fellow Order of the Phoenix member. The papers are still making a show of it. Perhaps after several years after the news dies down we might talk again, but I cannot jeopardize the school's reputation by having you teach. The parents will be outraged."

Hermione hung her head in shame. Reading it from the headlines was one thing. Getting dressed down from her Head of House was another. "I understand."

"And might I remind you," the Headmistress continued, "the Keeper of the Keys and Groundskeeper is a noble position. Dear Hagrid has served with distinction here for many fine years until he left to pursue his lady love. Under the circumstances, Professor Grubbly-Plank has been doing her best, but the time has come to fill the position permanently. Are you interested or not, Miss Granger?"

The silence was awkward. Professor Filtwick pressed her with his round eyes, waiting for any sign of what she'd choose. Which only made Hermione wonder: _what she was going to do?_ The rock had met the hard place. Professor McGonagall was looking for an immediate answer for a position she had never considered. Hermione blew out a long breath of air. It wasn't as if she had a long list of options to choose from. Her most attractive employment opportunity was to start out again overseas where nobody had heard of her name.

"I…" She nodded hesitantly. "Yes. I'll do it."

The Headmistress nodded primly. "As I expected you would." She withdrew an employment contract from her desk and rolled it out. "Please sign here. We'd like to have you on as soon as possible. The term is just now ending, but that'll give you a nice, quiet summer to learn the school's layout and grounds."

Hermione bit her lip. Although her Hogwarts years were quite behind her, her memory was still fresh. She knew the castle and grounds even without the help of the Marauder's map. Perhaps there were new shrubberies planted since the reconstruction, or an abrupt end to an old corridor, but Hoggy Hoggy Hoggywarts never changed much. She was confident she could manage. Hermione imagined a quiet summer to read about the castle and take long-forgotten staircases would be just the thing she needed. Hermione picked up the inked quill, but before signing, she read her contract.

Fifteen year commitment to work at Hogwarts! It was a huge cut in pay, but on the upside she would get free housing and food. Except that she had to be available for all hours of the days, nights, weekends, and during emergencies with no expectation of extra compensation for interruption of her life. If she read between the lines she could nearly see the fine print where it said, _'Working at Hogwarts means having no life at all.'_ She couldn't go farther than Hogsmeade without special dispensation. Couldn't break any of the rules she'd read about in _Hogwarts: A History_ , particularly the _'Professors in a Pickle'_ section. And it sounded like she had far more restrictions than the students did.

Her duties seemed fair.

Care for all creatures, beasts, and animals domiciled at Hogwarts and its environs including the Black Lake and Forbidden Forrest. Schoolchildren were responsible for their own familiars, but she would advise and assist, if necessary.

Keep the Keys of Hogwarts. Open the school gates for visitors, when available. Maintain and open other castle doors as necessary. Secure the grounds.

Ferry the First Years' boats.

Tend to pumpkins and vegetable patches.

Procure twelve giant Christmas trees for the Great Hall.

Perform litter control. Sweep for trash.

The last duty gave her pause, but Hermione also thought if litter fell under her duties, she would introduce the concept of recycling to Hogwarts. Perhaps the children would benefit from a little, _'reduce, reuse, recycle!'_

She could give up her flat immediately. Although it would be odd moving into the Groundskeeper's hut. It would always stand out in her mind as Hagrid's. Conscious of the growing impatience of Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, Hermione signed. They added their signatures to the contract and it was done.

Minerva offered her hand to shake as did Filius.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger," he said in a delighted voice. "So glad to have you back!"

Minerva nodded approvingly. "And I have something here for you," she said.

Hermione smiled. "Oh, you didn't have to get me anything. Really."

"Nonsense. These are the Majestic Keys; they belong to Hogwarts." She handed Hermione a beautiful set of golden keys linked by a large gold key ring, the like she'd never seen before. Each key was unique in shape and was decorated with a tiny filigree of scrollwork. The keys felt intensely warm in her palm for a minute. "Now, I would thank you not to lose those," the Headmistress admonished.

"No, I could never." Her heart felt giddy and light holding the very keys of Hogwarts. She wondered what secrets they unlocked. The big key with the heart shape… the tiniest itty-bitty key… the jagged broken key… the thick and…

"Good, because it's forty Galleons to replace them, and that'll come out of your pocket," she warned. "Hagrid lost his keys so often he had to start purchasing the not-quite-so-majestic version."

"I'll take very good care of them, I promise." Hermione slipped the keys into her pocket and resolved not to misplace the keys to the castle; it was part of her job description, actually.

Just before she was shown the door, Minerva looked at her very seriously and asked, "Hermione, will you be able to manage hitching the Thestrals to the carriages?"

Hermione carefully considered the question. She'd hitched Pegasi. Thestrals couldn't be much different considering they were far more docile. "I'm certain I'll manage just fine. Thank you."

 **AN: Thank you to everyone who left comments on this story! I really appreciate the encouragement. It was so lovely to see so many familiar names enjoying it.**


	4. Chapter 3

**The Menagerie – Chapter Three**

 _Fifteen drops of Dittany… or sixteen?_

Severus' quill hovered uncertainly over the parchment while a bead of ink threatened to spill upon it. His lips pursed in discontentment. Suzie Perkins looked up from her Swelling Solution, prepared to raise her hand and ask a question about armadillo bile, but after seeing his dark countenance she decided against chancing it. Instead, she flipped through her textbook to search out the answers from within.

 _Fifteen or sixteen?_ His mind spun with dizzying calculations, thermodynamics and discrete math. On a scratch sheet of parchment he sketched a quick alchemical calculation. _'Fuck,'_ he thought.

 _Fifteen point three, three, three, three…_ drops of Dittany were required.

Severus wrote the notation: _Fifteen-ish_ and continued onto the next ingredient in his list. _Lemons._

Halfway before he finished forming the word and the inky letters had taken shape, his nose detected the faintest whiff of burning sugar. His plume dropped to the parchment, splattering ink over the potion recipe. In an instant Professor Snape was out of his chair, wand at the ready. _Which cauldron was it?_ Unable to peer into every cauldron at once, he scanned faces, looking for surprise, frustration, or buffoonery. There… Thomkins. Second row, third cauldron. Thomkins was peering into his cauldron as if utterly confounded by its existence.

Slapping his hands down hard on the Potions bench, Severus startled every child in the room with the sound. There was a satisfying gasp to his right as a phial dropped out of Jugson's fingers with a loud smash. Beetle eyes skittered across the ground.

"Mr. Thomkins," Severus' voice dropped in register as he slowly enunciated the boy's name. "Instead of brewing a Swelling Solution, it appears you've attempted to make caramel. Tell me exactly what you did to create this culinary abomination?"

Thomkins quailed under his gaze and looked to his notes. "Uh… I added Beet root…?"

"Instead of…?" Severus prompted the boy.

"Burdock?" he asked with an uncertain wince.

Severus towered imperiously over the boy and the potions bench, and vanished the sludgy mess with a flick of his wrist. As much as it might have been good for the boy to learn from his mistake by cleaning it by hand, he had neither the time nor inclination to supervise detention. That, and Minerva would have his head if he or the student missed the Leaving Feast.

"Zero points for the lesson and you are to start again, Mr. Thomkins," Severus said stalking off. He made his circuit, inspecting each cauldron. There was no inspiration to be had in the simple brew, but at least there was no chance of an explosion either. Satisfied that the dunderheads would be fine pushed firmly under his tyrannical thumb, he plastered on a well-worn sneer and returned to his desk. The children be damned, he had real work to do.

 _Eight lemon seeds, crushed…_

 _Fourty-seven grams of Sands of Time…_

* * *

Elsewhere in the castle, Irma Pince was doing her best to ignore the end of year crush of students cramming for finals.

It was an unpleasant agony waiting for the clock to strike. Knowing that the wasting of her precious time was pointless; the little shites weren't there to learn. They were there to copy off each other and espouse tired old ideas as if they were their own. For all this, she could forgive the spotty, imbecilic louts. What she could not tolerate was the boredom. If there was one damn good book in the whole library worth reading, she'd read it cover to cover at least five times.

Starry-eyed, she'd taken the position sixty years ago for the love of parchment and prose. The ink called to her soul like a Siren song, and she'd been thrashed upon the jagged rocks of reality. Irma barely read anymore. The last time a book stirred up her poet's soul, she'd wanted to stab Gilderoy Lockheart in the eye with a quill, actually. But then he'd done more to murder the English language, so she'd felt justified.

When she arrived at Hogwarts she wasn't precisely young and green with new ideas. Irma had never been one who anyone would describe in such terms, but she had an imagination. She envisioned for herself long beautiful days in the company of books, sun streaming through multicolored glass to warm her cheek. Curious students who politely asked questions and thirsted for knowledge, perhaps the occasional rapscallion or two. And she would not kid herself, no Irma was never one to do that, she knew the position was physical. There would be many hours on her feet and shelving books, but she would manage and had always had a deft wand hand.

Discretely groaning and flexing her back, seeking to relieve the aching pressure, she wryly reflected if she had to do it all over again, she would have gone into bookkeeping. Spending long, interminable days in the company of books, she never saw the sun that shone through the multicolored glass and it never seemed to warm her cheek. Of course the Hogwarts library had to keep all hours: morning, noon, night and weekends. It needed to be open and available to every whim and need of the little buggers who had no concept of time management skills. The professors were the worst offenders. She always had to check the stacks for an errant professor before closing up.

Children were curious, but they never politely asked for anything, nor did they thirst for knowledge. They were all dangerous little creatures with wands in their hands who wanted to push boundaries. Only the Slytherins were identified by their house colors, the rest were just as devilish, they just feigned innocence. And the physical fatigue. Irma placed her hand on her lower back and felt the whalebone ridges just beneath her dark cotton robe.

A young pig-tailed Ravenclaw girl with an obsequious grin brought her a stack of books far too advanced for the assignment the class was working on. Whatever she hoped to find within the pages wouldn't be worth citing, or if she did manage to make the leap from Elementary Transpurmutations to Adaptive Polymorphifiguring, the girl would win the golden plume award for the best shit stew Professor Knack had seen since Halloween.

"I'll take very good care of these books," she said in a cooing voice. "I'll have them back before the leaving fest, I swear."

The Librarian peered over the girl extending her long neck to read the book titles again. The children called her a vulture. Irma slowly glanced up at the little Ravenclaw girl, like a scavenger considering whether or not to pick over dry bones. Children. Particularly females, though she wasn't certain why, thought that if they were subservient or toadying towards her, they would earn her favor. She didn't require their false sweetness or platitudes. In actuality, she preferred that they _not_ be friends, or even try. Her requirements were fairly short: _keep the Honeydukes and potions spills away from the pages, and return the books on time and as promised. Then I won't have to hunt down your hide and peck on your corpse._

Irma stamped the books into the magical record while glaring at her. ' _Fly away little birdie.'_

The Ravenclaw ran from her nest, pigtails and all.

The day dragged. Her bones ached. At eight in the evening she was finally able to take her leave. Instead of heading to her rooms, there was only one place Irma wanted to be. Like most of the staff, Irma avoided the Grand Staircase where the children congregated. She pushed through the portrait of Theobald Feurknocker and rushed down the great spiraling staircase that led to the ground floor Entrance Hall. When she reached the simple door of the Caretaker's office, Irma leaned against it to gather her breath. She knocked rapidly.

It opened a crack.

"Please," Irma whispered, feeling exposed in the hallway. It was undignified for anyone to see her slipping into the Caretaker's quarters. If word got out she would be ruined.

There was a soft grunt from within before the door gave allowing her enough room to slip into Filch's windowless workroom. The iron manacles on the walls were relics from another day and age. Hogwarts hadn't used them since the turn of the century, two centuries previously, but they added a nice dungeon flair the small oil-lit room. And Argus needed something to threaten the little ones with, since threats were the only thing they seemed to take seriously. The dusty shelf above his workbench was littered with early confiscated prototypes of Weasley Wizarding Wheezes before the twins had left the school. Argus kept them purely because they might be worth something someday, and not because he was nostalgic. Or because some of the thingamabobbers were damned helpful.

Filch's terrifying workshop of horrors was no different than any of the other Professor's offices. The door beyond led to his quarters. Irma gave a slight whimper as she adjusted her back. The whalebones were pushing in something fierce. He opened the door to his rooms which were simple, homely and smelled vaguely of fried fish.

"So, twas an awful day then?" he asked, his eyes held a knowing glint.

End of term brought final exams and papers. It was always her busiest season. And without fail a handful of students would accidentally take her books home for the holiday.

Irma smiled softly. "Absolutely horrid. I wish I could string them all up by their ears," she whispered conspiratorially.

"Drown the filthy lot in the Black Lake, I say." Argus grinned nastily.

Irma blushed.

"You ready, then?" he asked kindly. She nodded and Argus gestured towards his bedroom. Irma gratefully ducked inside, shutting and locking door for modesty. In his sitting room, the besotted old fool sat down heavily on his broken armchair and waited patiently.

The locking spell was necessary even though she trusted the Caretaker. Irma pretended not to notice how Argus' eyes fell softly upon her. She hadn't been courted since she was a slip of a girl. And she had no intention of courting; she was far too old for such a thing – _what a scandal they would cause!_ Pausing neither to spare a glance for the Caretaker's budding assortment of books nor the framed the holiday card she'd given him. She sailed past his bedroom and yanked open the door to his heavenly bathroom.

The moment the opened his door fragrant steam hit her face. Irma sighed, relaxing into the bones of her corset. Whispering spells, she began disrobing, removing offending pieces of garments that pinched and corrected posture. The Healthy Witch Corset was cast to the ground as Irma set foot inside Argus' bathroom.

Simple in stone and lacking the sumptuous adornments found throughout the castle, the Caretaker's bathroom held one prize that made it the most luxurious: it was home to the thermal basin. The Founders had channeled a naturally occurring spout of hot mineral water from deep within the Black Lake into the castle for a plumbing reserve. Resembling nothing as grand as a steaming lake, it was actually the most divine and relaxing bathtub experience. The fried fish smell was only a bit off putting, at first, but once in the water… _Oh, the water_.

Irma sank her toes in first, and then slipped beneath the surface feeling like a pat of melting butter.

 _How could the children liken her to a bird of the air when surely she was meant to be a creature of the sea?_

* * *

As the castle finally settled down for the night it seemed to physically sigh. An unnatural gust of wind blew through corridors and along battlements as the castle shifted and relaxed. A low groan was heard in the darkest parts of the dungeons. The castle cried, in tones too low for human ears to hear, a longsuffering wail.

A bittersweet lovesong, for those yet tender

The trellising moonseed feed on thy ruby blood

My broken teeth, rotted stone surrender

Your death always lingers; set fresh in mud

Such empty aching loss cannot be born

In hollow archways doth the northwind cry

I feel thy own poor fate, with thee I mourn

And stand sentry for thee beneath blue sky

Here, in the cold pockets of reconstructed stone, the fresh mortar hadn't yet settled. In ten years since the great and horrific battle, the aches had slipped into crevices. The castle felt unwhole. Scorch marks were made to disappear with a simple spell, but unseen they _burned._ The lingering traces of hex smoke in the corridors had found its way deep into the rock, burying into the psyche of Hogwarts, mixing with the blood of innocence taken.

Professor Sinistra set a groaning homework assignment for every class, killing all good cheer before the leaving feast. Restless students nibbled at quills fretting over newly introduced exam standards. Three days of miserable, soaking rain had kept children indoors. The castle prickled with tension.

As time drifts, new children arrive once more

Days pass like warm treacle and lacewing flies

New wands fumble in hands untouched by war

Their youth cannot scratch out sorrows and sighs

True! All will fall to carpets of chalk dust

It was upon my parapets they put their trust

A fight broke out in the Third Floor corridor, another in the dungeons. There was a hexing in the greenhouses. Petty rivalries spilled over in the houses as rumors swirled about next year's Prefects announcements. A vulgar drawing was left in the girl's lav featuring Portia LaRue and an Ogre. Portia was the last to see it. Anthony Lau could not find his quills, or his books, or the cookies his mother sent him. Just an empty box full of crumbs.

Anxiety swelled.

So many broken hearts.

In the dark of night, a first year missed home. Behind the curtains of her bed, she cried wishing that someone had said _'Happy Birthday'_ to her.

The castle shuddered and contracted.

Thirty-eight beds on the fourth floor shrank. Thirty-eight beds refit themselves to a child's bed, sized appropriately for a first year. Tumbling out unto cold stone, adults and teenagers jarred awake, wondering what happened. Unconscious of the disruption, a small first year felt as if she was being hugged in a snuggly bed.


	5. Chapter 4

**The Menagerie - Chapter Four**

Before she dashed into the ancient and venerable wood paneled staffroom, bouncing on her toes and giggling with madness, Hermione needed to stop and gather her wits. She ducked into a girl's lav and pressed against a sink. The porcelain was cold against her fingertips, and she fiddled with the tap before colder water gushed from the spigot. The water hit her hands and it was bracing. Hermione breathed, going through the motions of washing before she looked up into her own reflection. With a metallic squeak, the water turned off and Hermione thought she didn't look too bad, just nervous, which she was. Overeager and ready to take flight. Almost absently she remembered to scan the toilets behind her for students and Myrtle. That would have to become a new habit for her.

Hermione slumped against the basin, and pushed back some of her hair. How many times had she slogged through meetings in her own department? She breathed slowly through her nose and out her mouth. This was not her first staff meeting.

Her own departmental staff meetings had been a battlefield. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Beasts might have been staffed by reckless dragon-wranglers, but they reported to policy-pounding stooges. Hermione had spent interminable afternoons arguing for the protection of the species she served. They argued back, her species were annoying household pests and wouldn't it be better for everyone if they found nice little ways to eliminate them? That wasn't the point of service, she said, but her pleas fell on deaf ears.

Not that it mattered any longer. With the stroke of a quill, Minister Shacklebolt had repealed all of their conservation laws under the guise of a Peace Accord. Her breath hitched as she thought of her creatures not having a voice, nobody to advocate for them, and nobody in the department would dare stand up to Shacklebolt now. Hermione tried to still her breathing. Hogwarts would be different.

Jitters were perfectly normal. It was just a new working environment. She wasn't as if she was expected to run the meeting… she just wished there had been clear guidance about how she was supposed to contribute. Hermione grimaced. She wouldn't contribute anything if she remained in the Girl's Loo. That's how troll attacks began.

She stepped out of the lavatory with her head held high and double checked for toilet paper beneath her shoes, just in case. The moment she entered the Staffroom, she noticed that in her nervousness, even with the side trip, she was still painfully early. Hermione plastered on a smile and decided to take the opportunity to talk with her mentor again and thank her for the appointment in person, just in case the thank you note she'd sent was too formal.

Head bent over her work, Minerva was preparing folios for the coming meeting. Hermione couldn't read her facial expression beneath the brim of her hat, but knew protocol enough to wait politely by her side and remain quiet until recognized.

"What is it, Miss Granger?" the Headmistress addressed her in a brusque tone that clearly conveyed she did not appreciate any interruption.

Like a popped balloon, Hermione completely deflated. She floundered for an instant for a proper question that would not harass the Headmistress while she worked. "I wanted to thank you again for inviting me back to Hogwarts. I really appreciate being here."

"Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you home." Minerva glanced up briefly. "Of course I snatched you up, Hermione. I would have been a fool not to. I just hope you'll get on here. We're not the Ministry; we do things much differently at Hogwarts."

Hermione sighed. "And I can't tell you how grateful I am for that."

"Now if you don't mind, this is our final meeting of the school year, so please take a seat."

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you." Hermione said softly.

She stared down the staffroom table at its unmatched chairs. Every chair at the table was from a different era and carved in a different style. Right off, Hermione guessed that the chair at the Headmistress' right hand belonged to Flitwick, but the stack of books on the cushion were a dead giveaway. _Which ones match to which professors?_ Hermione wondered. _And which seats are free?_

" _Pssst!_ Girl," a whispering voice called. "Girl! Move your tailbone over here. This is your chair."

Hermione's head whipped towards the sound. Her eyes widened in surprise then narrowed as she identified the speaker as Rolanda Hooch, the Flying Instructor. Settled comfortably at the far end of the room with her back against the wall, and wearing what could only be described as a wicked, feral grin, she reminded Hermione of an impolite school child. Good students sat at the table with excellent posture. Bad students lurked in the background and waited for the opportunity to lob spitballs, or worse. Hermione found herself at war with her natural inclination. She could have been born wearing a Prefect pin; she could have worn one throughout her Ministry career, too. Sitting at the back of the room just wasn't done.

With incredible poise and delicate steps, Hermione took her seat next to the Flying Instructor, mindful of her posture. It wasn't that she disliked Madam Hooch. Clearly it wasn't her fault the school's training brooms were antiques. Or that brakes were less of a consideration than speed. Hermione simply didn't know Madam Hooch. She'd taken the requisite first year course and that was all the instruction that had been offered. It wasn't as if there was a NEWT or OWL for the subject. If there had been, Hermione thought it might be the only class the boys might have been able to scratch by on their own.

Madam Hooch had a firm and occasionally growling voice, a loud, barking laugh and very distinctive physical traits. Wild golden eyes and shock of short silver hair don't often go unremarked. Up close, Hermione also noticed she smelled nicely of lavender. This was, all things considered, the most personal detail Hermione knew about the witch.

Madam Hooch leaned in close, ducking very much into what Hermione considered her personal space. "Rolanda," she said, sticking forward a wind chapped hand. Her breath smelled pleasantly of violet candy.

Hermione grasped her hand, fearing nearly of bone-crushing handshake, and was relieved when it wasn't. "Hermione."

Rolanda smiled devilishly. "You'll get a hang of it soon enough, girl." She darted a finger at the heavy table dominating the staffroom. "Professor's table. And you ain't one of 'em."

Hermione held back her tongue before she spoke. She knew that Madam Hooch taught, but her course wasn't a NEWT or OWL course. She wasn't a professor; she was the flying instructor and Quidditch referee. Hermione nodded quickly to show her budding understanding as an apt pupil.

"The Professors don't like us getting in their way, none."

Hermione recoiled as if struck. Hooch was talking about a division that went farther than a seating assignment?

"They keep to their own and won't want you about. Except for maybe Severus, he's the only tolerable one in the lot. They teased him something fierce when he came on staff because he' barely graduated himself. He's been paying them back for it ever since. And of course there's Trelawney, but that dozy witch never comes down either. If you spot her give a shout out, there's a prize for spotting her first." Rolanda nodded in agreement with what she'd said.

"But I'm the Keeper of the Keys and the Groundskeeper," she tried her best to keep the whine out of her voice.

Working at Hogwarts was a dream come true. They were all supposed to become the very best of friends. She imagined warm cozy evenings spent with her Head of House taking tea and discussing interesting subjects while laughing over witty things. Her old professors would provide lots of wonderful academic encouragement to publish articles and pursue off-hours studies. And she just knew there would be a fantastic party or two, perhaps in the staff room, when they'd all let down their hair just a little bit. It was going to be magical, damn it.

"Oh, so they let you muck out stables, do they? Best not track shit into the castle."

Hermione didn't quite know how to respond to that. Not in a dignified, proper manner, anyhow. So she did not. She adjusted her posture until she positively ached and waited for the meeting to begin. It was fortunate that she did not have to wait too long.

She noted the seats surrounding the table filled up before the professors table filled. She was seated along with Madam Pince, Madam Pomfrey, and Mr. Filch. Those who were not required to eat in the Great Hall during meals.

Professor Grubbly-Plank was the first professor to arrive and she had something squirming in her pocket. Hermione tried to fathom what it could be, but decided she didn't right care. Professor Binns floated in and quietly bobbed in his seat. Professors Babbling, Smith, and Knack came in laughing together. Rolanda snorted and offered Hermione a violet chew, explaining Professor Smith taught Muggle Studies and Knack had taken over Transfiguration when Professor McGonagall had become Headmistress. Hermione refused the candy.

Hermione was so happy when Professor Flitwick waved to her when he came in, but he waved to everyone before assuming his seat. Professor Vector was precisely on time. The meeting started late. Rolanda whispered the meeting was always late. Professor Longbottom toddled in a bit later with a wave and laugh for the room; his fingernails were darkened with soil. Also arriving late was Professor Sinistra, clutching a mug of steaming hot coffee and looking for the world like she just tumbled out of bed. The door opened a crack, and Professor Trelawney slunk in taking a seat closest to the door. And Hermione felt the room hold its collective breath for the empty seat at the end of the table. Rolanda looked positively giddy.

As the minutes ticked by Minerva became more and more agitated. There were only so many times one could loudly shuffle folios to show her displeasure.

"Oh this is going to be good," Rolanda whispered.

Hermione shot her a look: two parts enquiring minds want to know, one part behave yourself woman, are you trying to draw the attention of the angry Headmistress?

The door to the staff room creaked open. Professor Snape walked in and closed the great door softly and with incredible amount of patience. Hermione had been expecting some sort of bang. Or maybe a dramatic swish. He favored those. Actually, he was taking his damned time about closing the door and making certain the latch slid shut as quietly as possible. The exasperated professors at the table groaned. Pulling out the chair, which made a horrid sound, and then cozying up to the table in a fussy manner, Severus Snape settled himself with great and deliberate care.

"Are you quite ready?" the Headmistress asked waspishly.

He inclined his head. "Quite."

"Do I even want to know where you've been? Dare I even ask what was more important that availing yourself to this important meeting on time?"

His dark eyes glittered. She'd seen them glitter plenty of times before, usually right before delivering a death blow to Neville Longbottom's ego. She'd also seen them glitter in mirth, although less frequently. But Hermione knew the Headmistress had give him the opportunity to rise to her challenge, and thought it was very unwise, indeed. The Severus Snape she knew was never unprepared and always went for the jugular, which was rather ironic, considering his scar.

"Why I just spent the most wonderful time splish splashing in my bubble bath, Headmistress," he said, as his voice dipped in a hypnotic intonation. "Ducky and I had oh so much fun together. And we really must thank you for it. For did you not say last year, _'Severus Snape you filthy cretin, if you ever show up to my annual leaving meeting reeking of foul potions again I will cast a Scourgify upon you like you've never seen!'_ For surely I did not. And I will have you know, Headmistress, I even washed behind my ears. Would you like to check?"

For a moment there was nothing. Simply stunned silence before muffled titters and quiet chortles broke out behind pressed hands and red faces.

"Oh my god," Hermione whispered.

"That's quite enough," the Headmistress railed, standing tall. "We will come to order and there will be no more of that.

"I wish to congratulate you all on a successful school year. I look forward to seeing each of you at the Leaky Cauldron tomorrow night for a celebration drink." A smattering of applause broke out. It was half hearted at best. "Folios are being handed out with the annual self assessments and questionnaires. As a reminder, I would state iambic pentameter, limericks and riddles of the sphinx are not appropriate response formats."

She readied her quill with a great flourish. "Now, if you would all be so kind, I need final numbers of everyone who is staying over the summer by a show of hands."

Feeling horribly embarrassed, because she was hardly one day on the job and had already given up her flat to take advantage of the free Hogwarts housing and food, Hermione timidly raised her hand. After seeing most the room raise their hands with her, her embarrassment quickly faded.

"And on to the Hail and Farewells; I regret to inform everyone that our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Professor Schmendrick of Chelm will not return next year. The good people of Chelm are unable to endure another year without their brightest scholar and have requested his return. Unfortunately, Professor Schmendrick is not here today to accept your warm wishes, he departed yesterday morning by way of apple cart. I'm certain we all are eagerly looking forward to learning who the replacement DADA professor will be… as am I.

"And I am pleased to extend a warm Hogwarts welcome to the newest edition to the castle, Hermione Granger, our new Keeper of the Keys and Grounds. Many of you remember Miss Granger as a student and I have every faith you'll bring her into the fold."

Rolanda nudged her to stand. Hermione stood and smiled proudly until Rolanda tugged at her robes. It was the only contribution she made during the entire meeting. Although afterwards, Professor Babbling offered a few concern words about her ability to hitch Thestrals. It made Hermione wonder, just how difficult was it to hitch Thestrals to the carriages?

* * *

The next morning, Headmistress McGonagall stood at an open window watching the long trail of students heading into Hogsmeade. The castle was empty, save a few stragglers and staff. As she sipped upon strong tea, Minerva meditated on whether her lecture had made any impression on them at all. The new era of unity they had fought for was supposed to be peaceful.

Her cat's eyes caught a flicker of turquoise to her left. "What is it, Albus?" she asked, taking a sip.

"Seems sad to have all the children gone. The castle feels quite empty already," he remarked lightly.

Minerva's teacup rattled as she set it down. "Why? What's wrong? Has something happened already?" She turned to face the former Headmaster's portrait and narrowed her eyes as he popped a candy into his mouth.

"You know what the remarkable thing about children is? They make you feel young. It's quite wonderful having them run about."

"Albus, has something happened to the castle?" Minerva snapped.

"To the castle?" he pondered, tilting his head. "I don't know if anything has happened _to_ the castle, perhaps a different preposition would be better suited - throughout the castle. Yes, something has definitely happened _throughout_ the castle. The children have left. Summer is a sad and vacant time."

It was at that exact moment that Albus decided to go for a stroll.

"Albus, you come back here this instant!" Minerva shrieked.

"So lonely," he muttered, walking off. "There ought to be more children."


	6. Chapter 5

**The Menagerie – Chapter Five**

Holding on to a thin breath she barely had, Hermione lumbered up more spiraling staircases than she cared to count. Following in Mr. Filch's footsteps she had first attempted to hold her nose against the overwhelming smell of peat smoke and homebrewed tonics, but given her labors, there was no escaping the scent that emanated from his pours. Her eyes lifted above them, into the staircase that drifted into an eternity like the chambers of a great nautilus shell.

"Are you certain about this?" Hermione asked, her breath not quite caught up to her.

"Of course I am," he gritted over his shoulder. At least that's what she thought he said.

Clenching the railing, she placed one foot in front of the other. Heaven help her she was going to climb all seven stories of the Dark Tower. The highest turret in the school had the best view of the Quidditch pitch. On game days, he assured her, she would find students breaking the rules. If students trudged up each one of the narrow winding steps to the turret, Hermione thought judiciously, they deserved to break the rules.

Sweat poured freely around her neck. The tight space was absolutely stifling. Hermione cast a cooling spell on herself and offered one to Mr. Filch. He waved her off. She was utterly beside herself to decipher what he said. The parapet door to the turret came into view and she met it with grateful relief. Muscles aching, legs protesting, she had no idea how much her thighs could hate her. Before she could pull her majestic key ring out, the door pushed open beneath Mr. Filch's hand.

Hermione stood in the turret and blinked as air rushed and whistled around her from all sides. The tiny circular stone battlement could not accommodate more than three or four people standing, so any students out breaking rules were certainly getting creative. Mr. Filch pointed a gnarled finger at the pennants of the Quidditch field.

"Quidditch," Mr. Filch barked, before walking out to the ledge.

"Oh yes, I see." She joined him at the ledge, and most certainly did not look down. The field was perfectly in sight, and she could understand why students would make the effort.

Suddenly, Mr. Filch was seized by some supernatural force. That was the only reasonable explanation.

He started screaming.

"Oi!" Mr. Filch yelled at the top of his lungs. Arms waving as he raved. "Yooohooo! Oi!"

Hermione clutched the stone wall for dear life as blood drained from her. He was jumping. Jumping led to crumbling. Crumbling led to whole rock walls falling. Her heart pounded like a tattoo. Scared and furious. They were all going to die. She was going to die. She'd never been to Rio. Never had a chance to see the Northern Lights over the Arctic. And she owed books to the Higdon Public Library. If she died, would anyone return them…?

In his dirty brown suede shoes he jumped up and down near the edge of the tower and was throwing his hands over his head like a madman as he yelled "Yoohoo!" at the sky.

"Here, yar great ruddy beast! Here! Yooohoooo!"

Hermione turned to run inside. He caught her hand and pulled her from her hasty exit.

"Nooo…no… no… no…" she protested, shaking her head. Please let this not be the moment where the virgin is sacrificed to the Quidditch god by the rabid fan. She wasn't that kind of girl. She didn't even like the sport. Whatever his reason whatever his mental illness, she didn't want to hear it. All Hermione wanted to do was get as close to the ground as possible, as soon as possible, but not by getting tossed off a tower… or turret… whatever.

"Gimme your wand girl!" Mr. Filch shouted in her ear, grabbing her wand hand. His firm grip tightened around her hand and he pointed her wand arm at the sky. "Hex it!" He commanded. "Get it! Get the blasted thing!" He cackled in a crazed laugh that bespoke the sanity of a man who would tickle sleeping dragons. "Do it! Do it now!"

He moved her arm about, even though she wasn't holding her wand. He was waving it with a force and strength as if he could hex right through her body if he could. Hermione closed her eyes and turned away from the madness in his eyes. The fire and glimmer in his eyes were frightening in their manic. Every whispered word about how scary evil old Filch was came back to her then.

"Awww," he moaned, releasing her arm.

"Is gone now. But that was a good one. One for me book, too."

Slowly Hermione opened her eyes and turned to look. She didn't see anything. "What was it?" she asked, nearly afraid to know the answer.

"Arrrplane!" Mr. Filch said, showing all his crooked teeth in a wild grin.

Hermione exhaled and looked to the skies again, noticing for the first time the faint contrail streaking across the horizon. They bemused and befuddled witches and wizards who couldn't fathom flying at thirty thousand feet in a tin can. She imagined if she did manage the impossible task of hex one, at their altitude she would only create a bit of turbulence.

"I… I don't think hexing airplanes is a good hobby, Mr. Filch."

"Nonsense," he grumbled, his eyes lit up with unbridled mischief. "Best kind of bird hunting."

She stepped back into the firmer ground of the parapet and gripped the tight walls. "Oh my god, I'm surrounded by lunatics," she whispered.

He pulled at an unseen trap door and pointed at the darkness within. "Ladies first," he grunted, giving her a swift push.

Hermione screamed all the way down.

* * *

In the Tapestry Corridor Potions Storeroom, Severus Snape stood on the highest rung of the storeroom ladder reaching for a phial of Nickleweed sap. Arm extended, he paused as his ears pricked up with some faint growing awareness. A sound... getting louder. A scream. A shrieking scream, coming closer. A loud banshee's wail.

Severus' eyes roamed wildly around the Potions Storeroom as tiny glass phials began to vibrate. Their rattling increased as the sound grew louder. His mouth dropped open. The phial of Erumpent-in-heat musk teetered precariously close to the edge of the shelf. What a ruddy mess that would make if it fell to the floor. Behind the wall there was a whooooosing sound as the screaming banshee flew by. A moment later the sound was followed by wheezend cackling laughter as a second body whooooshed past.

Severus carefully set the Erumpent phial to rights and grabbed his sap. It appeared Argus was giving Miss Granger the grand tour of the castle. If she enjoyed that trapdoor, she was going to love the Lost Wands cupboard. For a brief moment he wondered if Granger was the sort of girl who might stick around. Staff either stayed the school year or remained their entire lives. Beyond, if one took Cuthbert into consideration.

It was then, Severus resolved that he might like to speak with Miss Granger and find out if she had matured into a tolerable witch and reasonable conversationalist. After she'd spent the requisite number of dreadful years tending to spotty children to make her worth speaking to, or commiserating with, truth be told. They had to share something in common other than where the hexes had fallen, the proverbial bodies been buried, and that damned comment about her teeth. Yes, he affirmed. In six or seven years, if she was amenable to the suggestion, he would very much enjoy having a conversation.

After setting the wards on the Potions storeroom tight enough that Miss Granger would not be able to sneak into them again, Severus swiftly headed to his dungeons. He wore his characteristic sneer of disdain, but felt rather good, bordering upon jovial, if it were possible. It was his favorite time of year: Summer hols. He knew of no reason for Minerva, or anyone else for that matter, to come knocking at his door. His experimental potion was progressing. The only thing that could possibly make things better were if some tits in a jumper chatted him up.

Rounding the corner, Severus spotted the most wild and elusive creature in the entire castle sneaking across the Viaduct entrance staircase. A frizzle of untamed golden hair, multiple layers of mismatched garments, round owlish glasses, and a staggering amount of bangle bracelets – Severus grinned when he spotted her and shot up purple sparks from his wand. Throughout the castle the other professors received a purple smoke plume of Severus Snape's face. He'd scored a point! Severus descended swiftly upon her.

"Sybill," he hissed, watching her jump three feet, giving a small scream. Bangles rattled as her arms fluttered in fright.

Placing her hand against her brow, Sybill blotted out his presence before her eyes. "Oh Severus, you gave me such a scare. Could you please not do that?"

He leaned in closer, even as the scent of patchouli became overwhelming. "Do what?" he asked.

"Um, loom?" she said in a weak voice.

Suppressing a smirk, Severus withdrew a modest amount. "It's so kind of you to grace us with your company. What brings you out of the North Tower today?"

"Ah, I have had a vision." Her high warbling voice trembled with uncontained giddiness. "My inner-eye has shown me a vision so clear. A delicate blossom unfurling in a mystical garden of pure joy… I must hasten to Greenhouse Three."

Severus closed his eyes briefly and wondered if there was any point in reminding Sybill that Greenhouse Three was where the hazardous and venomous plants were kept. He doubted a warning would keep her from her vision quest. Hopefully the large **CAUTION DEADLY PLANTS AHEAD!** signs hung on every doorpost would stop her from losing body parts or worse.

Then, Sybill clutched her chest, violently. Straining against the fabric of her… oh dear god… _tits in a jumper._ Severus turned his head and looked away. It wasn't the patchouli making him feel sick.

"You know," she said a bit breathlessly, using her most sultry voice. The one she only pulled out when she had a good paying crowd but no knocker under the table. "I could easily be convinced to stay with you instead. What do you think, Severus? You, me, a bottle of…"

"No," he shouted, watching her face crumple into hurt. Memory of the _'Great Tirade of 96'_ surfaced, followed just as quickly with the _'Great (forced) Mending of Relationships of 96.'_ "What I mean to say, Sybill," he amended, gently. Very gently. "Is that I am busy. I have a previous engagement."

"Which night?" she asked, curiously.

"Every night. All of them." He nodded his head, vigorously, like a _coward_. He smiled weakly and produced the tiny phial of Nickleweed sap from his pocket and showed it to her. "See? The life of a Potions master, I'm married to my work. No time for anyone else. I'm so sorry, dear Sybill."

She swooned.

Swooned! Fucking hell! As if he were some dark Prince and she some fair maiden trapped in a lofty tower. Well, Severus thought, if her ideals ran toward courtly love, he could manage that. For their passions would remain forever, unrequited. Severus bowed stiffly and watched her mooncalf eyes grow round.

"I'll take leave of you now," Severus said softly. He turned and fled.

Behind him, she shrieked, "Fare thee well."

* * *

In the sweetly perfumed North Tower, Sybill was at a witch's crossroad. The burden of her aching heart tore at her psyche. Never before had she been so conflicted in the ways of love. Her fragile painted teacups held no hope in their dregs. They told wild stories of shifting sands and turning clocks. Sybill paced her tower room, her gauzy skirts fluttering behind her like the wings of magical butterflies.

"Oh Buster, what am I going to do? However shall I go on?"

Buster, who she'd tried unsuccessfully to rename Anubis, was lounging beneath an ornate ottoman. The overfed black tomcat was deep in contemplation. Sybill was wearing her green slippers with the little balls at the toes again; those little balls mocked Buster. He'd nearly chewed one of them off last time she'd worn them.

Sybill's Floo sparked and she noticed for the first time that someone was attempting to call in. Kneeling before the grate, Sybill struggled to still her wildly beating heart. She turned to Buster, her soul's companion for a word of advice, but he was yawning, baring his big white hunter's teeth before settling down to nap. Accepting it as an omen of power, resolution and might, – jaws of anger and swift mercy – Sybill cautiously answered her Floo.

"Sybill?" Neville asked worriedly, his head poking through the connection. "Sybill, are you there my fragrant hyacinth?"

As her resolve crumbled, Sybill wilted against her mantle, slumping to the floor. "I'm here Neville." Her finger traced a sad, meandering path through dry ashes on the hearth stone. Vines snaked out, connecting to flowers, blooming with leaves, petals and life. "I can't come," she said desolately.

There was a great pause at the other end of the Floo connection. "Tonight, or ever, my sweet?"

Fingers smudged with dust, she stopped tracing a tiny bloom and scattered the ashes with her hand. "Never," Sybill admitted. "It's not my path. I'm destined to love only one heart. My swain would rather that I wither on the vine than be plucked while ripe and lush with life, dear boy, but such is fate. Such is the way of the stars. The moon is a solitary mistress."

"Sybill are you okay? You don't sound well. You're mixing metaphors again. Do you need me to come through?"

She snorted. "No, Neville. I don't need you to come and visit. I don't need you to hold my hand, give me a back rub, or take away my ache inside. I'm feeling very tired right now, but I'll be better in the morning. Good night, Neville." Sybill closed her Floo connection and found Buster asleep on her bed. She'd never known a better diviner of her own desires.

When the Floo connection closed abruptly in his face, Neville reeled back and sat on his haunches in Greenhouse Three. Everything had been set so perfectly; the mood, the food and the setting. He looked over his shoulder at his handiwork: _a picnic in the garden of enchanted mysteries._ There was no sense letting it go to waste then. Neville rang up another Floo.

"My delicate Orchid, I have a surprise for you…"

* * *

Bruised, muddied, limping slightly and feeling like the wind had been thoroughly knocked out of her, Hermione survived her first day castle orientation with Mr. Filch. They had started as soon as breakfast ended and stopped abruptly at eight in the evening. She had some expectation that she would have to wait upon Mr. Filch, given his advanced age and hobbled gait. Such was not the case. She had a damned difficult time keeping up with the old man, which he did not appreciate at all. He soured on her after the lunch hour, when Hermione complained that her stomach was growling and stopping to eat would do the trick. Additionally, Mr. Filch was not amused by her lack of enthusiasm for stairs.

There were one-hundred-and-forty-two blessed and awe inspiring staircases within the castle proper. Hermione's hips, back, knees, legs and thighs intensely believed they'd been up and down each and every single staircase that day. But Mr. Filch wasn't done with her yet. He wouldn't give her _'The Map'_ until he was satisfied she'd learned the castle well enough to use it. If _'The Map'_ was as useful as _'The Keys'_ he could bloody well keep it. Thus far, she hadn't found a single door that wouldn't open easily to her hand or wand. As far as she was concerned, the majestic key ring was a very nice paperweight.

With sandwiches tucked into her pockets, the only thing Hermione wanted to do was inspect her new accommodations, then inspect her eyelids. It meant more walking, which her legs were not so keen on, but for the promise of a bed, Hermione could make it out to her new cottage. The door opened freely under her hand then abruptly hit something.

Frowning, Hermione shimmied into the wedge of the door and discovered the elves had unpacked for her. They had unpacked _everything_ for her. Clearly, everything did not fit in the two-room Gatekeeper's cottage. At the far end, jutting out at a strange angle, she could make out the foot of her bed. It was blocked by bookcases, trunks, two sofas, squashy armchairs, wardrobes, trunks, lamps, rolled up carpets, a dining room set, a kitchen table… From somewhere within the mess a poor cat yowled piteously for his mistress.

"Oh, Crooks," she said sympathetically. He had nibbles and water in his carrier, but it couldn't possibly be comfortable for him. Drawing wand, Hermione began to shrink her possessions down to the size of dollhouse furniture. When she found her poor, bandy-legged tom stuck in his carrier, she opened the latch to spring him free. Crooks spent a good minute rubbing his face against her hand complaining about his horrible treatment while allowing her to scratch the right spot, before he walked off to perform his cat-duty of inspecting and butting against the new home.

Hermione began with the floor, which was frightfully cold, and layered all of her carpets in an outlandish patchwork. There was room in the cottage for her bed, a few trunks and a wardrobe. And a spot near the fireplace wall for her kitchen table and chairs. Her two squashy armchairs could remain, in case she had a guest over, but there wasn't any room for anything else. The built-in bookshelves only held a smattering of supplies. A few supplies could be tucked up into the rafters or bolted onto the walls, but it was hodgepodge at best.

The second room was her washroom. It was dominated by a large metal washtub. That was, quite literally, giant sized. Hermione knew she'd need a ladder and several strong scowering spells before she had the nerve to get in it. Until then, she wondered if she could gain access to the Prefect's bath. With school on hiatus, perhaps no one would ever notice her using it.

The cottage didn't look anything like her home. Fortunately, it didn't look like a tent either; solid stone walls, warm cheerful light and good memories were associated with the Groundskeeper's cottage. Hermione put down Kneazle Kibble for Crooks and finished her sandwiches. From within a trunk she fished out the latest book she had marked to read and wrapped herself in the layers of her grandmother's quilt. As the wind howled outside, Hermione thought she could very much be at home.

One moment, Hermione was reading a chapter, the next moment her book was resting against her chest as she slept. The fireplace began to spark and crackle with bright green flames.

"Girl! Where you at?" Rolanda shouted as she pressed her head through the Floo. "Girl, you're missing this party."

Drowsily, Hermione cracked open her eyelids. She was surprised she fell asleep while reading, but that didn't come anywhere close to the surprise of being awoken by her ex-Flying Instructor hollering through her Floo. Blearily Hermione blinked several times at the vision of Rolanda's green floating head.

"What?" Hermione cried exasperated. There had to be some damned good reason for the late-night disturbance. She knew she was supposed to keep her Floo un-warded. That was in her contract, but she expected they'd only Floo her if it was an Emergency. Like the school was burning down. Or a Centaur herd was overrunning the grounds. Rolanda sounded tipsy. Therefore it was definitely not an emergency.

"Get your bony arse down to the Leaky. We're having our leaving party and you're missing it."

Hermione groaned. Sleep. All she wanted was blissful, uninterrupted, sleep. Pub with her professors was not on the list. "I didn't work this year," Hermione reasoned.

"Nonsense, you're on staff now. It's expected."

"But today was my first day," she whined, clutching her coverlet.

"Mandatory fun time," Rolanda said drily. "Better get used to it. And better get here quick before your absence is noted." The Floo connection closed with a puff of dry ashes leaving Hermione alone in the darkness. She whimpered. Every bone ached as she dragged herself up to get dressed.

Hermione meekly slid into the Leaky Cauldron and attempted to blend in without being noticed; the plan failed miserably. The only patrons at the pub were Hogwarts staff and the moment she entered a great cheer went up. Hermione caught a few comments of _'glad you finally decided to turn up,'_ one of which was from Argus. Hermione glared at the sadist.

A pint of bitter, which she didn't drink, was pressed into her hand. The first round of bitter was on Hogwarts. Hermione handed her bitter off to Rolanda and ordered a lager.

"I knew I liked you girl," Hooch exclaimed, accepting the drink. "Cheers!"

The low din of the Leaky was indicative of the tame affair. Minerva held court at the back of the pub with many of the female professors in attendance. Professor Snape was explaining something using wild gesticulations to the Matron – on second thought; perhaps he was demonstrating the hand-jive dance. Professor Binns was present which gave Hermione pause given what she knew of spectral hauntings. Professor Longbottom was hiding in a secluded corner with Professor Sinistra. Professor Flitwick appeared to be chatting up Rosmerta. And she could not help but notice the way Filch stared puppy dog eyes at Irma Pince, which was, all things considered, the most disgusting bit of information ever filed away in her brain.

There was a tap at Hermione's shoulder. She turned to see Professor Grubbly-Plank standing over her with narrowed eyes. Professor Grubbly-Plank's unkempt coarse hair had been pulled back for the occasion and she was wearing quite feminine dress robes. Hermione had never seen the professor out of thick boots and a heavy overcoat.

"Hullo, Granger," her watery blue eyes pinned Hermione with an indescribably look. "I hitched the Thestrals to the carriages today. I believe that's your job."

Hermione opened her mouth to offer a word of protest. She would have gladly hitched Thestrals. Hitching Thestrals was far preferable than chasing Argus up and down every staircase in the castle proper plus down each and every damnable trapdoor. And the cupboard she got trapped in! Never again would Hermione look for hidden nooks and crannies in the castle. Hermione vowed to let the children have their fun. If they wanted to muck about the castle, she wasn't going to be Argus' errand girl, running after them.

"It's alright," Professor Grubbly-Plank forestalled her. "I know you were doing your orientation today. Next time, you've got them. Just remember, it takes forty two barrels of single malt liquor to gentle them before they'll stand for it. Make sure you order enough for each term, and not the cheap stuff either."

Hermione's eyes bulged. Forty two barrels? Was that how many their Thestrals drank? She knew Pegasusi who could be lushes, but to tipple that much. She had to get them right sauced before they'd accept a hitch. It was a wonder there hadn't been an accident with the children. But then Thestrals were different than Pegasusi and perhaps she didn't know her beasts as well as she thought. Hermione nodded her head in acceptance.

"Of course, I'll order enough barrels."

"Good. See that you do." The professor set her empty glass down and left the bar.

Hermione wanted to politely mingle. It was far preferable than sticking out like a sore thumb as the only person not having a conversation, but everyone else was engaged with someone. Every time Hermione approached a group talking, they looked at her like she was budging in. She knew this look very well. It was the look that group of adults having adult conversation get when an annoying child approaches. Hermione wasn't even begging to watch telly past her beddy-by time, yet they all looked at her like she was three and just learning her numbers and vowels. It was damned infuriating. The only decent person she thought she could have conversation with was Neville, but she saw where he'd snuck his hand, and wasn't willing to approach their darkened corner even if it meant she was completely alone.

Not knowing what else to do, she sat next to Rolanda, her unlikely ally, and nursed another drink at the back table. Hooch was several cards into a fast and furious game of Wizard's Rummy. Hermione cradled her drink and closed her eyes, but only for a moment.


	7. Chapter 6

**The Menagerie – Chapter Six**

"…a wet blanket who can't handle her liquor," Aurora Sinistra commented drily, rounding the courtyard path.

Hermione looked up sharply. The professors tittered in unison.

"Remarkable considering what scandals she made during her school years. I would have thought she would have been so much more…" Professor Babbling added.

"Lively?"

"At the very least. I mean, I would never. Absolutely never just pass out in a filthy pub."

"Evidently that's because she's either at the center of attention or nowhere in sight. Poor thing has no social graces. And of course that's not because she's a Muggleborn. Let's not make this into a Muggleborn issue. I've met some that are perfectly integrated."

Hermione's wand hand tensed as the brood of clucking witches passed by.

"Girlie!" Argus snapped. "Are you even watching what I'm doing?"

Hermione turned back to Filch who was squatting in the bushes. They both were squatting in the bushes. Given the ridiculous number of tasks that Filch had asked her to do, she hardly batted an eyelash. He grabbed her hand roughly.

"You've gotta feel fer it. Can you feel that?"

Hermione's brow wrinkled as she petted the soft earth. Everything felt correct. Soft earth yielded to her touch. It had rained hard a few days ago and the ground was still damp. The grass was thinner amongst the bushes. She could feel a root. No. Wait. It wasn't a root at all. Buried under the ground was a round metal pin. She cast Argus a worried look.

"Go on," he gritted out.

Hermione pushed down upon it. In the courtyard she heard a creaking sound. She turned to look, but vegetation was blocking the view.

Argus rose, she followed him.

Before them, the great fountain opened and exposed a dark chasm beneath. Its tiered basins shifted downward into the ground like steps. Hermione felt apprehensive as she witnessed the waters recede. Having experience with Hogwart's hidden chambers, she wasn't too keen on going down there. Though she suddenly understood why Argus had insisted upon bringing lanterns into the gardens on a sunny day. Hermione balked as he quickly descended the steps. She stood resolutely on firm ground before the open fountain until Filch growled up at her to move.

Jumping down into dirty old trapdoors was the sort of Hogwarts experience that Hermione was not particularly eager about rekindling. Her sentimentality towards the castle ran less towards troll attacks, basilisk hunts, Death Eater duels and other assorted heart-stopping moments, and ran more towards fests, dances, hours spent in comfortable research, and mentoring younger students. Since Argus was the one person in the castle she could count on to stomp out all fun and was likely not dragging her down there for mischief's sake, Hermione tentatively followed. The wet steps led into an underground water way that reminded her very much of the London tube. Standing on a slippery platform, she watched a lazy stream drift down the track.

It was ungodly hot down there. Whereas up on land, it was yet early in the summer, and the oppressive heat of a Scottish summer hadn't yet set in, down below the castle, steam permeated the air. Hermione felt tendrils of her hair coil in response. In an instant she knew, no amount of charms or Sleekeazy's would tame it.

"Lovely," Hermione muttered. "Where on earth are we?"

"Creekarch," Argus grunted. Lifting his lantern, he pointed a gnarled finger down one darkened pathway. "Thar's the Black Lake. An' that ways the river."

"And this supplies Hogwart's water?"

"Some of it," he replied evasively.

Curious, Hermione started to walk down the tube, where she noticed off in the distance other lines flowed and connected to the creekarch.

From within his chest pocket, Argus pulled out his copy of the map. Hermione vainly tried to read over his shoulder. "This way," he said taking off at a quick pace. She hastened to keep up.

Along the underground creekarch, they walked. Hermione followed the swinging lantern ahead of her. He never paused to consult the map as they took twists and turns in the tunnels. As they got further under Hogwarts, Hermione stepped over a bit of shed basilisk skin and dead animal bones. How on earth did they not know they had a monster lurking below?

"This is disgusting," Hermione said, holding her lantern over the darkened water.

As they continued down the tunnel the stream ran higher and slipped its banks and spilled out into the walkway. Her boots got wet as they splashed through water. The further they walked, the deeper the water became. Hermione lifted her lantern and peered into the near darkness ahead. It looked like a lake was forming.

"Argus," Hermione called out. "What is this?" she asked warily. "What's happening here?"

He turned quickly and light spilled across his tight whiskered face. He loomed in close enough that Hermione could smell the sardines on his breath. "Effluence is backin' up. You is going to unstuff it. Some magical critters gone and nested down thar." He shook his head vigorously. "No, I don't fuss with 'em critters."

"Oh dear god." Hermione needed a moment for mental digestion. Her boots were wet with _effluence_. "The castle has a backflow problem?" she inquired calmly. Mentally, Hermione considered burning her clothes, her boots and considered what steps she was going to take to clean her feet after stepping through it.

"That's what I just said, did I?"

"Dare I ask…" she sighed. There were things Hermione never considered about the function of Hogwarts as a castle until they came up. House elves. Hidden chambers and passageways. Now plumbing. "How is waste water treated?"

Argus stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. "Eh?"

"The castle," Hermione said patiently. "It doesn't just pump out dirty water into the ecosystem somewhere. How is it treated?"

"Why would you do that fer? It's just water." He shook his head and led on.

"No, of course not. Silly me," she muttered. "Let's just keep on polluting."

They continued walking just a bit further on as the water climbed mid-calf before Argus stopped. "Thar. Just up ahead. The grate's blocked by a terrifying monster." He pointed an accusatory finger at the grate. "You get 'em, Granger."

Unfastening her wand, Hermione held it out ahead of her in one hand, the lantern gripped in the other as she approached the blocked drain. Mud and leaves were piled up around the metal grate, causing Hogwart's water to trickle through. _Mud, water, deciduous forest, high magical sphere of influence in the area_ – Hermione cleared her throat as she considered the possibility of a Quintaped at Hogwarts. Yes, her removal certification was current, but encountering a class XXX beast on her second day of work wasn't what she imagined when she signed on to the job.

Or it could be a burrowing creature. She hated burrowing creatures. There was nothing quite like a swarm of little groundling beasts to give you a good strong case of the heebie-jeebies.

" _Bestia revelio_ ," Hermione intoned. A blue strip of light shot out from her wand. Her shoulders relaxed as she holstered her wand.

"A big 'un, eh?"

"Two," she replied. "And they're mated pair. There will be babies soon enough."

"Cor," his eyes widened, imagining wild fanged critters.

"It _is_ pretty amazing, actually, although completely non-magical. I didn't realize the efforts to reintroduce beavers into this part of the country had been so successful."

"Eh?" Filch scratched his head as for the first time he considered the dangerous animal on the other side of the grate was a non-magical beast.

"Obviously, the beavers will have to be carefully removed. They can't lodge here, but moving them elsewhere in the forest may be problematic. We can't have them killed by an Acromantula, nor can we have their offspring damming up the Black Lake." Hermione stopped to consider the forest and wider area for relocation.

"Isn't they the ones that were hunted cuz of their pretty furs?"

Hermione did not like the wicked gleam in his eyes one bit. No, not one bit at all.

"No. Absolutely not!" she said shrilly. "You can't kill them, Argus. Eurasian beavers are _endangered_."

"What? How 'bout just one. Something for my trophy wall. I haven't got a beaver."

"I said, _'No.'_ You can't kill just one, Argus. Beavers mate for life. Do you have any concept of what that means? If you kill a beaver, its mate will spend the rest of its life sad, miserable and alone. It will never find another love. Can you possibly comprehend loving someone so much that if they died, you could never love again, because that's what beavers do, Argus. They mate for life."

His mouth closed and Argus mutely nodded looking quite shamefaced.

Together they walked through the tunnels of Hogwarts' creekarches in silence. Hermione ruminated on how to carefully remove the wayward beavers. She wasn't certain what was on Argus' mind, but was satisfied that he was unwilling to go after the lodge.

"Come on," Filch said gruffly from the top of the fountain.

She scurried up to join him before he locked her inside. Argus was the sort who would find locking her in the tunnels hilarious. As Hermione exited the fountain, a spider web clung to her neck. She jumped out just as Filch hit the root-like trigger, closing off the fountain with a swift bang. Her boots sloshed with each step as she tried to rid the icky phantom spider web feeling from her face and neck. Argus was deeply unmoved by her condition.

By mid-day she had a solution to the lodging conundrum. She'd developed plenty of Muggle contacts during her time in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Her friends in Knapdale were happy to accept the pair. With surprisingly little fuss, the lodge was relocated.

Argus arrived as she was finishing up to inspect the work down in the tunnels. The backflow was moving, and all the debris was cleared. Argus seemed impressed with her efficiency. Not that he would complement her work.

"Headmistress wants you," he grunted. "Better git goin."

Hermione blanched. She was wet from head to toe, and fairly certain she reeked of swamp water – she resolutely refused to think about what else might be in the water – and she was in no condition to go to the Headmistress' office. She swore.

Gathering what little dignity she could, Hermione emerged from the creekarch and performed some basic cleaning spells to remove the muck from her clothing. There was absolutely no help for her hair. She made a promise to herself that she would spend the evening in the Prefect's Bath. She deserved it.

Making her way through the halls, Hermione nearly reached the Headmistress's door, when Professor Sinistra's blood curdling scream rent the air. Hermione froze.

"Snake!" she wailed. " _Snaaaaaaake!_ "

Quickly dashing over to the shaking professor, Hermione offered her a steadying hand. Professor Sinistra raised a trembling finger and pointed down the empty hallway.

"I saw a Runespoor," she whispered fearfully. "I don't know how, but it must have escaped when the school returned the animals it borrows for the year."

Hermione's eyes widened. She hadn't been aware that the school had deadly beasts on its grounds. A Runespoor could kill a full grown wizard long before the antidote could be brewed. She didn't even know if Hogwarts stocked anti-venom. Hermione bolted down the empty hallway.

"Oh god, where is it?" Hermione yelled frantically, running through another corridor.

"Up there!" a portrait supplied, pointing up a staircase. Like a shot, she took off running again. Her chest was starting to ache with the exertion, but there was nothing quite like the fear of death to keep the adrenalin going.

"That way, girl!" another portrait yelled. "The snake went that way!" Portrait-spectators, nodded in agreement.

Hermione rounded the corner. "No, it isn't over here," the portrait of Yardley Platt, serial Goblin killer, said drolly. "I watched the horrid thing turn off the corridor naught a moment before you came."

Hermione's shoulders sank ever so slightly before she nodded and took off. When seconds counted, there wasn't a moment to lose. Running at full speed, she crossed the Arithmancy corridor, spotted no sign of the deadly Runespoor, and came to a dead stop. Two staircases branched out before her leading in opposite directions, but which one?

"Miss Granger?" Professor Vector asked standing on one of the staircases, her head tilted in a question. "You seem rather exerted. Is there something going on?"

"Oh professor," she said in a rush, trying to catch her breath. "There's a deadly Runespoor on the loose in the castle. You haven't seen it, have you?"

Professor Vector pointed down the stairs. "I just passed it a minute ago," she said unruffled, continuing her ascent.

' _What is wrong with these people?'_ Hermione thought briefly before sprinting off again.

After further unsuccessful attempts at finding the three-headed serpent, she thought she had it cornered. It had wriggled under the Infirmary Wing doors. Hermione threw open a door and found the Matron, clipboard in hand, taking annual inventory.

"Where is it?" she gasped.

Madam Pomfrey looked at her expectantly and withdrew her diagnostic wand out of habit. "Heavens child! What are you looking for?"

Hermione placed her hand on an Infirmary bed and doubled over while wheezing for air. "The snake. The Runespoor that came in here…"

"Ah." Poppy gestured to her hearth. "I think I saw it over there, heading for the fireplace."

"Thank, god," Hermione said. She shuffled over to collect the very deadly and highly venomous snake that had been terrorizing the castle in the correct and prescribed manner from the Regulation for the Control of Magical Creatures Instruction Manual, as amended, and found the fireplace… "It's empty!"

"Oh?" Poppy came over and looked at the vacant fireplace. Only a few embers of a low-burning fire were crackling. "Oh, no! That must mean…"

"What? Tell me! You must tell me!"

"But then… Oh this is bad, very bad." Madam Pomfrey looked at Hermione with frightened eyes. "It must have slipped through the Floo. Professor Snape just used it a few minutes ago."

Madam Pomfrey put her arms on Hermione's shoulders. "You've got to get it. You have to save him, Hermione. Severus doesn't know he Floo'd with a deadly viper. You know how he feels about snakes! It could be killing him now."

She grabbed Floo powder from her mantle and pitched it into the embers.

"Say it clearly, girl: _Severus Snape's Quarters_."

"Severus Snape's Quarters," Hermione repeated as a surprisingly strong hand shoved her from behind.

It was her worst experience with Floo travel in memory. And that included every time she ever had to 'Flush' herself into the Ministry, which was saying quite a bit. The push she'd been given sent her somersaulting arse over teakettle through the Floo system. Hermione fell sprawling into Professor Snape's study and smacked her head against the stone floor hard enough to see stars bursting behind her eyes. Groaning she felt her forehead and knew she'd have one hell of a goose egg later.

"What the fuck!" a voice yelled as soon as she tumbled out of the opposite end.

Hermione jumped up as soon as she was able and had her wand out.

"What is the meaning of this, Miss Granger?" a voice, Professor Snape's voice, asked. She looked for him and realized her vision was blurry. The room was a vague impression of old leather, of antique books, frowning portraits with sharply pointed noses, and a weathered brown sofa and chair. Hermione felt for the wall before she fell over. No, standing was not good.

"Runespoor!" she said urgently. Probable concussion or no, she had a job to do. "A Runespoor followed you through the Floo."

Backed against the wall she kept her head very still as tears threatened to trickle down her cheeks.

He snorted. "Did it now? You've been chasing it around the school, I imagine?"

"Yes," she said, trying to keep the cry out of her voice.

"An extremely rare three-headed African snake?"

"I'm not quite sure how that happened, actually," Hermione informed him.

He stepped close to her. She could tell. Not because she had her eyes open, but he smelled of warm wool and washing soap, leather and pine, parchment and tea, and an undercurrent of scents she never quite could identify but found uniquely alluring just the same. He came close enough to tip her head back, ignoring her whimper. Professor Snape's hands were incredibly gentle as he lifted her chin and moved her head from side to side.

"Open your eyes," he commanded.

She obeyed and found him standing closer than she expected him to be. She could count the faint stubble on his jaw, note that once he'd split the underside of his chin, see the delicate bow of his lips, the feather brush of his hair on his shoulders, the arch of his eyebrow when he was not pleased with her staring at him…

He dropped his hand and took a step back. "Yesterday was your orientation, was it not? And today is your first day?"

"I'm still muddling through my orientation," she managed, her fingers ghosting over the splitting pain in her forehead. She felt as if she had cracked her head in two and all the brainy bits were leaking like a runny egg.

"And you've seen no evidence of a Runespoor nor its destructive wake, and yet you still pursue it, because?"

Her wince had nothing to do with the pain in her head. "Just because I didn't see it…" she said weakly.

She heard him rattle around and could clearly distinguish the tinkling sound of potions phials. "I understand why you pursued it. You were doing your job. I chased my fair share of imaginary Runespoors for two and a half years."

Hermione groaned. " _Two and a half years!_ Of all the imbecilic, fuckwitted…" Hermione stopped. She suddenly realized that she'd been caught cursing in her Professor's quarters and her cheeks burned with shame. "I'm sorry, I apologize for my outburst. I'm only here because I can't seem to control my temper."

"Fuckwitted, asinine, juvenile things to do?" He continued. "What do you expect, Miss Granger? They're a bunch of lazy cake-eating gobshites."

"Well, since you put it that way. How did you stop it, then?"

He came over and pushed a potions phial in her hand. "I didn't. Tucker Tyler did." Before she could ask anything, his fingers were upon her brow smoothing a warm, thick mixture that felt so good, she didn't want to ruin the moment by saying a single word. Hermione closed her eyes and allowed herself the pleasure of being in his good hands as he tended to her. As soon as the plaster was finished, he nudged her hand and she took the potion.

He retrieved the empty phial and left her standing at the wall for support, but she was thinking the floor was looking attractive too. Yes, for some entirely unknown reason, her lower extremities were starting to feel very numb yet wiggly.

"I failed to respond to a call of a potions poisoning because I believed it to be another staff prank. Regrettably, Mr. Tyler's suicide attempt was successful. I am a roadmap of bad examples."

The next time she opened her eyes, he was looking over her. ' _When had she laid down?'_

"You should rest, Miss Granger. I'll send word that you're recovering in my chambers."

"You could call me Hermione, you know," she said sleepily. "You're not a fuckwit."

"Maybe I shan't wait six or seven years…"

She awakened slowly to an assault of unfamiliar sensations. Her mouth tasted as if it was filled with a melting caramel. The leather sofa beneath her was so perfectly broken-in, she was loathe to get up. And she swore she could hear her old professor's voice talking. No. Wait. That part made sense. She was at Hogwarts. Hermione's eyes flicked up as the cobwebs of dreams drifted away and memories of the afternoon came hurdling to her at full speed. Gingerly, she touched her goose-egg and found it's size diminished. Hermione groaned and the conversation halted.

"How are you feeling, Hermione," Professor Snape asked.

Reflexively she clenched the blanket he'd placed atop her. "I'm so sorry," she mumbled drowsily. "I can't believe I fell asleep like that."

He snorted inelegantly. "Your potion included a sedative. I would have been worried if you hadn't." He used his wand to cast a brief diagnostic spell over her and was satisfied with the results. "The Headmistress has been asking for you."

"What time is it?" she asked blurrily.

"Nine," he enunciated, in a way that clearly conveyed she had managed to outstay her welcome. "You'd better go now. Don't keep her waiting much longer; she can be quite vindictive you know."

"Oh." Hermione slowly sat up and felt the cold ground with her toes. "No, I didn't know."

He hummed dispassionately and thrust a box of Floo powder at her as she pulled on her boots. "I'll tell the elves to send sandwiches to your cottage."

"Thanks," she said gratefully. "For everything."

"Let's not make a repeat of it."

"I wouldn't dare." She flashed him a beaming smile which he returned with a slight twisting of his upper lip before dashing through the Floo.

The oil lamps in the Headmistress' office were turned down and dark shadows stretched across the room creating an eeriness that threw a chill over her shoulders. The irregular angles of seeping darkness seemed to hide immeasurable dangers. Hermione took a few hesitant steps towards Professor McGonagall's empty desk. In a room of ticking clocks and slumbering portraits, her eyes sought out the Headmistress.

"Child?" a gentle voice called to her.

Hermione relaxed as the darkness no longer felt foreign and scary. She recognized Professor Dumbledore's familiar voice even though it had been over a decade since they had last spoken. As a child she cried countess tears in mourning of his death. In the years since then, her feelings towards the manipulative Headmaster had grown more complex. Standing before his imposing portrait, seeing him stripped of his ability to make life and death choices, she didn't know how she felt about him.

Professor Dumbledore had been painted in tones of light lavender and steely grey. The artist no doubt believed it lent wizard gravitas, but Hermione couldn't help feel it was all wrong. The Headmaster of her youth looked best in golden yellow with blazing suns and bright piping. His painting was a poor reflection of the enigmatic wizard. Giving him lemon sherbets to snack on, didn't make him any more real.

"Hullo Professor Dumbledore," Hermione said quietly. "Professor McGonagall asked me to come."

"She has retired for the evening and left a small matter of great importance in my hands. You are to be given the Map of Hogwarts." He peered down at her intently as if ensuring she was worthy of the gift. The effect was less impressive to Hermione the adult than it would have been to Hermione the child.

He pointed to a cylindrical object sitting on the Headmistress' desk. Hermione hadn't paid any attention to it, but it appeared to be a leather document canister embossed with the Hogwarts crest.

"There are six layers to the map of Hogwarts: architectural, Floo-systemic, fluvial, magical, phantasmal, and house-elf. The map will show you each layer as you need it."

"Fluvial? What is that?" Hermione asked.

"The waterways of Hogwarts." He nodded gravely. "The ability to roam freely within the castle is no small matter. Hogwarts is our home, but tread gently, for it is also a world unto its own. We only entrust the map to those who care greatly and respect its mysteries."

She nodded. "I will."

She turned to leave, but her mind could not let go of the day's questions. "Can you help me understand what's going on?" she asked plaintively, hoping to cut to the heart of it.

"Do you know what the most powerful force in the universe is?"

"It's love," she deadpanned, feeling as if she'd heard the coming lecture before.

"Exactly so!" He beamed at her with pride. "Love leaves it's own mark. Not a scar, mind you, but love fills up the cracks and crevices of our hearts and gives us some protection from the roughest parts. Hogwarts has endured, but it's in need of repairs. Oh, the cracks and crevices have been filled with mortar, but nothing can replace love."

"Hogwarts needs love," Hermione stated. How on earth did one help a lovelorn castle? Her mind reeled. She'd just got over the idea that Hogwarts was sentient, now it needed to be loved.

"And children, and babies, and romance. Nothing is quite as wonderful as the first blush of a new romance."

"How should we go about loving the castle?"

His head tilted to the side, as if she were a First Year struggling with an obvious answer. "You already love the castle, do you not, Miss Granger?"

Her answer came quickly. "Yes, of course." Her fondest memories were of the castle. This is where she learned to control her own magic, where books and possibilities opened up in front of her. There was no home quite like Hogwarts.

"Then you need to love it more. Look to your friend Professor Longbottom, he is creating love within the castle as we speak. Everyone should follow his incredible example of spreading love. You could do it in the Great Hall - all of you."

Hermione blanched.

"Open yourself up to possibilities, Miss Granger. Love makes the most magical things happen."

She really wasn't prepared to answer that.

"Now I bid you good night, Miss Granger. I trust you can Floo back to your quarters without encountering any deadly vipers." He peered over the top of his glasses and for a brief moment, Hermione swore she could see his eyes twinkling.

"Yes, I believe I can, sir." She smiled.

A pile of fresh sandwiches were waiting for her on the table when she popped through the Floo. Her ginger beast looked up from atop the table to pause briefly in his licking.

"You couldn't wait for me?" she asked exasperated. She placed the map case on the table and examined the sarnies that weren't covered in cat hair. Crooksy had claimed a pimento cheese for himself.

"You'll pay for that, you know. And I mean it," she said biting into a mustard and roast beef. "The cat yack will be extraordinary."

Crooks gave her a baleful glare and yowled loudly, as if to say she'd put him entirely off his digestion.

"Prima donna," she muttered. With one hand, Hermione unscrewed the top of the leather map case.

Crooks' fur stood on end at the sound of the case opening. Like the gasping wind of an endless chasm, the canister took a mighty breath. Hermione quickly put down her sandwich and dusted the crumbs off her hands. Crooks flew off the table and perched himself on her bed. She cleared off the table and set her wand next to the lid. Her nerves tingled as she slowly turned the case over. A short roll of parchment, tightly furled, and bound in sealing wax and stamped with the school crest, emptied into her hand. Hermione held the slim parchment for several heartbeats before cracking the seal.

The parchment spread out across the table, opening up to display her cottage. Crookshanks' tiny paw prints were visible and labeled as were her own footprints. The pumpkin patch was clearly marked and it looked like there was something buried beneath her back gate. She watched Crooksy cautiously make his way off the bed by watching his paw prints before she felt him rub up against her leg.

"Incredible," she whispered.

Already familiar with the Maurader's map, and not too keen on that dodgy piece of magic, this map came from the castle. Across the top in beautiful lettering it read, 'The Castle Map.'

She ghosted her hand across its surface. "Can you show me another?"

The image disappeared and was replaced with what looked like a tiny ant farm. Hermione's brow furrowed.

"What is this?" Then she noticed the inscription at the bottom of the map: 'Elfen Domain'

Hermione pointed at a random spot on the map. "Can you show me what this is?"

The image resized itself and Hermione could clearly see burrows, chambers and tunnels. Nit, Noddy, and Purl were nested in a burrow together while a steady stream of house-elves toddled past.

"How about another map?" Hermione asked.

The map disappeared for several seconds and Hermione looked at an entirely blank parchment until a network of chutes and ladders appeared.

"Oh," she said feeling disappointed. "It's the Floo."

Hermione cocked her head to the side as Professor Smith's name appeared and disappeared.

"Can you show me where she went?"

The map of Greenhouse Three appeared. Hermione frowned and a worried line formed between her brows.

"It's very dark and those plants are deadly. She could be eaten, or worse." Hermione impetuously thought about running out to warn the new Muggle Studies teacher, but many things had changed at Hogwarts. Perhaps Greenhouse Three was no longer where the most dangerous plants were stored.

"I'm going to feel really awful if she's dies," Hermione said to the map.

The footsteps of Professor Smith slowly meandered along the greenhouse before they were joined by Neville's footsteps. Hermione relaxed a bit. She wouldn't have to play hero tonight. Then the footsteps became close – very close.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" She turned her head disgusted. "I can't believe I was going to interrupt that. Can you show me something else?"

The map displayed her cottage with herself and Crooks. "I think that's all of Hogwarts' mysteries I can possibly handle tonight."

The map must have concurred because it rolled itself up tightly and hopped into its own case. Hermione screwed the lid on gently and set it carefully on a shelf. While tidying up and preparing for bed she ruminated on what to do about the staff's pranks. Taking Severus' words to heart she gave the matter a great deal of thought.

 _To: The inhabitants of Hogwarts Castle_

 _From: Hermione Granger, Keeper of the Keys and Grounds_

 _Hermione Granger would like to thank everyone who helped her search for the deadly Runespoor. A lovely two meter male was eventually found in London. Anyone wishing to handle the highly venomous three-headed snake is welcome to visit the Groundskeepers hut. Ask to see Tucker._

 **AN: I would like to wish everyone a happy and prosperous New Year!**


	8. Chapter 7

**The Menagerie – Chapter Seven**

An insistent paw touched his nose – twice – Severus scrunched his face and grunted an expletive. The paw was undeterred. One sleepy eyelid cracked open. The disgustingly fluffy white mass sitting on his chest was quite insistent – he needed to awaken.

"Gerrof, cat." Severus mumbled. He'd fallen asleep while marking Minerva's Year End Assessments. Assessments which were now wrinkled under the weight of his particularly heavy hellbeast.

"Mrrow," the hellbeast yowled. Though to be sure, Severus was uncertain which kind of yowl it was. The floofy white monster made a variety of demands upon his person: _feed me, pet me, love me, scratch me, empty my litter box, entertain me, let me outside, and let me inside._

Severus' demands were simple: _stop shedding everywhere_. Thus far, the cat had won.

"I'm up!"

Having set out to accomplish whatever goal the heathen hellbeast had set for himself, he jumped and sauntered off. Severus hitched himself up off the couch and watched the cat daintily walk away, his tail crooked in a slight looping question mark and his fluffy pant legs rubbing together. Glancing at his mantle clock, Severus realized his afternoon snooze had run three hours too long.

"Shit," he jolted, sitting up. The Year End Assessments scattered to the floor. Sleeping three hours over his nap never happened. Certainly there were a few times when he'd overslept by ten or fifteen minutes, but banging into the next class with bravado until the children positively quaked in fear usually covered his tracks well. Severus always maintained his sleep schedule throughout the year. He'd been down the road of sleeping all day and brewing all night during the summer. It led to a miserable first term.

Glancing about the room, something caught his eye. Lines of ink on parchment that ought not be there. Severus snatched up the Year End Assessment from the floor.

 **Question Sixteen b:**

 _How have you integrated the new Ministry Standard 21F into your curriculum?_

 **Answer:** Successfully.

Severus smirked.

 **Question Sixteen c:**

 _What has been the outcome of integrating the new Ministry Standard 21F into your curriculum?_

 **Answer:** An unforeseen 13.9% loss/waste of potions ingredients. To continue implementation we require additional budget.

There was no doubting his own handwriting. Furthermore, the bullshit was genuine. His _modus operandi_ every year was to demand a budget increase and thirteen-point-nine sounded scientific enough. Sorting through the rest of the pages, he found them all complete. Severus shuffled them together and bound them for Minerva.

Cautiously, Severus crept into his bedroom listening for sound – just in case an Alternate Severus was lurking about. Not that he would be stupid enough to do such a thing. He really thought he wouldn't be that stupid, but the words 'cosmic loop' and 'unmake time' held a bit of weight to them. He knocked at his bedroom door and coughed loudly.

"I'm coming in," he announced to the wood plank door. Not a soul answered and Severus felt like an idiot.

An overly loud cough sounded behind him. From the wall, Hieronymus Prince attempted a look of disinterest bordering on ennui. When combined with a frilly ruff and poncy breeches, the effect was somewhat diluted. Hieronymus was always keenly and observantly interested in the minutia of Severus' life.

"You left twenty minutes ago," he drawled in cultured tones better suited to a Malfoy. "You levitated the paperwork into the parlor so you wouldn't have to see yourself. Been banging around for hours in the laboratory. I'm surprised you didn't wake yourself up with all that racket you caused in there."

Severus tipped his head towards his progenitor and headed straight for his bedroom.

There were a number of hiding nooks and spaces in his bedroom. As Severus rushed in, he reflected that it was a bit childish that his most important one was under his bed. Carefully, he pulled the ordinary looking jewelry box out from beneath the Hogwarts-issue tester bed. Without spell or incantation, it opened to his touch. Severus peeled back the lid and took a moment to look at his treasure. He couldn't help it, they had saved his life. It didn't matter how often he gazed upon the contents, he always stepped back and stared.

Thirty eight perfect Time Turners of various sizes and metals sat quietly upon red velvet. They caught the light with an abnormal gleam. His hand hovered over top of them and not for the first time he could swear he felt a tremor – a strange vibration. They were speaking. Severus looked away and closed his eyes. The glint of light from them could feel too overwhelming, overpowering; a twist of madness in every spin of the dial.

He lifted the shelf of Time Turners up and placed them aside. Revealing the bottom of the jewelry box, he found his true prize. Three large stoppered phials held the Sands of Time. It was unfathomable to think how many Time Turners had shattered to produce them. He dared to think that never before had there been such a bounty.

His potion experiment required 4 grams. It was difficult to part with any amount, but he would: _For the greater good._ Selecting the bottle he'd been using, Severus packed up the rest of the box – and on second thought, grabbed a small Time Turner for personal use. He already had a sneaking suspicion it was going to be a long night.

* * *

A lone candlestick burned on Hermione's nightstand illuminating her warm bed. Crookshanks rested comfortably by her side, his gravel truck purring was the perfect accompaniment for sleep. Hermione tilted her head to look out the big window above her bed and could see the large pearl moon in the sky. She sighed and pulled her quilt snugly around her. It was her first real night at Hogwarts. This one counted. She didn't have to deal with all-nighter at the pub, or any pressing issues. No, she was settling in and Hogwarts was going to become her new home.

It was just as it had been when she was a child. There were a few bumps at first, but then everything was sorted and she loved it. Assured in her contentment, Hermione closed her eyes.

The roll of a seawave brushed past her.

Hermione's eyes flicked open.

"The hell?"

She looked down at Crookshanks who was blissfully curled up.

Waiting expectantly in the darkness, Hermione's eyes wandered around the small cottage. She gave it a few more minutes before settling down again.

The roll of a mighty seawave brushed past her.

Hermione jumped up, throwing back her bedsheets and grabbing her dressing gown from the post. Crookshanks glared at her for the interruption.

"Someone's using a Time Turner," she accused.

The only thing that felt like a Time Turner was a Time Turner. Hermione had plenty of experience on that particular subject. So much experience in fact, she'd made herself sick and hyper-sensitive to their use. But that hadn't mattered anymore because the official word from the Ministry of Magic was: _'Time Turners no longer exist.'_ They were all destroyed along with the components to create them and the technology to fabricate them. Of course she always suspected the Ministry was lying, but never had the proof.

A small wave rolled gently past her. It felt like the ocean's tide on a placid day. A rolling torrent of fresh magic budding up and rippling out into the world.

Absolutely nothing else in the world caused those vibrations. Someone was playing with a Time Turner. Hermione paced back and forth across her tiny cottage. Crookshanks ignored her.

From the shelf, Hermione grabbed the map case. Perhaps it could show her who was awake.

* * *

She awakened to the chime of the six o'clock bell. With the habit of countless years, Irma began her day by reaching beneath her satin pillow to touch her prayer book. Without making any more of a fuss, she got on with the bother of getting up. She neither had the time nor luxury of lazing about. Standing before her wash basin, castile soap in one hand, she turned the spigots to emit a lukewarm stream. At her age she didn't wish to cook her delicate skin in a hot steam bath.

The tap shuddered and wheezed.

Perplexed, Irma twisted them to full capacity. A harsh wrenching sound was heard from deep within Hogwarts, but no water poured forth. Twisting quickly, she shut the shaking taps off.

"Hoot?" she called warily, asking for a house-elf. The bowing elf appeared. "Could you please fetch me some water to wash with?"

Hoot's long beak-like face dropped. "Is no water, Missy Pince." Hoot shook his head. "All the water is gone."

"Gone?" she gasped. "What do you mean, gone?"

Hoot's wide blue eyes filled with anguish as he contemplated trying to give an answer he did not have. Not having an answer made him a very bad elf. But none of the elves knew what happened to the water. It was gone. Worriedly, Hoot tugged on his ear.

"That's alright," Irma said with a wave of her hand. "I'll find some elsewhere."

She was an absolute mess. A complete sight. For one thing, she hadn't had her bath, nor was her face properly on, but desperate measures required desperate solutions. Irma dressed with great care and quietly made her way to the main floor. She needed a proper water source. And she knew just where to find one.

Knocking softly, but insistently upon Argus' door, she pushed her way through the moment he opened it.

"Lass?" Argus said with a surprise. "What are you doin' here?"

Slumping against his workbench of horrors, Irma pleaded for help. She had never gone a day without her routine. There were simple words she lived by: Cleanliness was akin to godliness. Health and Hygiene. Vim, Vigor and Vitality. Idle hands are the devil's workshop.

"Please Argus," she whispered. "I need to use the thermal basin. I must wash."

A mournful look overcame his features and Argus dropped his head in sadness. "Is no good. Water's dried up."

Irma recoiled in horror. Hogwarts without water. Instantly she pictured her delicates sitting unlaundered. Piles of filthy dishes stacking up unwashed. Hundreds of soiled toilets unflushed. She was standing in a frothing cesspool of germs. The children were grimy carriers of microorganisms who never washed. Who knew what she had come in contact with walking the halls? Germs were probably flourishing and proliferating as she dillydallied.

"I can't stay here," Irma breathed, feeling the heavy walls close in on her. "I have to leave the castle. I'll pack my bags at once."

"Wait, my dove!" Argus said fretfully. "You can't go." He spotted his bucket for mopping up the muddy shoe prints the children tracked everywhere. "I'll fetch water," he hastily offered.

But Irma had already taken flight. Black taffeta skirts flowing behind her, Irma was the finest figure of a witch Argus had ever laid eyes upon as she raced along the corridor. He sighed heavily and shut his door.

Breakfast in the Great Hall was quickly becoming an uncomfortable affair. Hermione had come in desperate for a cup of coffee and discovered there was none to be found. Other professors were just as disappointed.

"So help me, Septima, if you pissed off the castle again I will break every single one of your goddamned paperweights," Snape growled over the top of his glass of orange juice.

Hermione looked up sharply from her plate of eggs and fruit. The Great Hall held one large table and though no seats appeared to be assigned, everyone knew where they sat.

"Who, me?" Professor Vector cried. "I certainly didn't do this. It had to be Poppy. You know how hard she is on the castle's elves." A mass of professors at the table nodded in agreement. Nobody defended the absent Matron.

When Hermione had woken up and discovered the plumbing didn't work in her cottage, she simply wandered into the Prefect's bath only to find it bone dry. Never once did it occur to her that the plumbing problem was because the castle was unhappy. Of course as a student her study group theorized it was possible the Hogwarts castle could be somewhat sentient while they read Lamy's works, but the Professors spoke of it openly as if it was a known thing.

"If this goes on much longer, I shall pack my bags," Professor Sinistra proclaimed. She'd managed to fill her tea cup with conjured water, but her attempt at brewing a cuppa was scorching the china. "I have a perfectly good home in Kent, you know."

"I didn't know that," Professor Smith remarked.

"Well, it has been awhile," she managed, taking a sip of weak tea.

All the professors at the table seemed to look elsewhere at that, which made Hermione wonder just how many of them bothered to go home – or if there even was such a thing.

"Without water, I'll have to relocate the Greenhouses. After that, I think I'll be leaving too," Neville said with a bit of dark finality. "Even if that means going back to gran." The women of the table looked up in faint horror. "I know we had to stick through it when Hogwarts turned up the furnaces, but we had classes to teach then. I promise, I'll return just before the Start-of-Term feast."

There were a few softly muttered sighs and gently rattling juice cups as the main female delegation at the table looked particularly forlorn. Hermione set herself to say something optimistic when the door to the Great Hall opened. Everyone turned at once to look.

Frizzy hair abnormally frizzier, if that were possible. Swathed in gauze and cowering in fright, Professor Trelawney entered the hall carefully holding her teacup. All eyes followed her uncertain steps.

"Sorry for the interruption," she said meekly, Sybill's voice barely a breath. "There was a mix-up with my breakfast. Could someone please spare some tea? I must read the morning's leaves."

The silence of the Great Hall became uncomfortable.

"Some hot water then, perhaps?"

Nobody moved. Exasperated, Hermione grabbed the untouched milk carafe emptied it with a flick and filled it with an Aguamenti Charm. "Here," she held out the stoneware jug. "You should be able to use one of your tea kettles in your fireplace."

She didn't dare say what was on her mind, or what clearly must have been on the other professor's minds: Aguamenti Charms would only last for so long. It needed a local water source to draw from. Once they exhausted the residual clean water within the castle, Hogwarts would be in serious trouble.

Professor Trelawney accepted the water as if it posed a great challenge to her.

"That was our milk!" Professor Knack angrily hissed.

The doors to the Great Hall opened and the Headmistress strode in and addressed everyone. "Good, I see you're assembled. You must then be aware of the present water shortage. I would like to meet with each of you privately in my office, Severus you will assist me." He nodded his assent. "We will discuss your recent interactions with the castle and what you can do to assist the facility. Nobody is leaving the premises until we have a full accounting of what transpired, and God help us it may take all of us working together to fix it. Do I have your complete cooperation?"

Like a classroom of schoolchildren, everyone mumbled and muttered that they would.

As soon as Minerva departed the table cleared, with most of the witches looking even more sour than usual.

Giving up on the remains of breakfast, Hermione headed for Filch's office, her work gloves in hand. He'd promised her the day before for a 'proper tour' of the Forbidden Forest, so she'd put on her Dragonhide leathers just in case. As a child the thought of wandering into the forest provoked fear and trepidation, now after years as a senior member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she was filled with a mild curiosity. It had been at least two years since she'd done a field study out in the Forbidden Forest.

Knocking on Filch's door a second time, Hermione paused and wondered if he hadn't told her to meet him elsewhere. She racked her brain. Had he said to meet out by the stables? No, he definitely said at his office after breakfast. Tentatively, Hermione knocked again.

The heavy latch gave and the door creaked open an inch.

"Go 'way," he roughly snarled. "Lesson's cancelled."

Hermione recoiled. She'd endured enough days of his difficult abuse to detect the undercurrent of hurt in his voice.

"Mr. Filch, is there something wrong," she asked gently, using the coaxing voice that soothed jittery Cornish Pixies. "Would you like to talk about it?"

The door slammed abruptly in her face.

"Fine, go sulk then," she muttered beneath her breath. "Fuckwits and children, I swear."

Without a clear idea of what she should do with her day, but knowing she did not want to practice her piss removal charms again, Hermione headed outside into the sunshine. It was early enough in the summer to be perfectly pleasant, but the threat of irrepressible heat was fast advancing.

As she approached the Black Lake, sunshine gently dancing on the surface, an idea formed.

"Of course, why didn't I think of it sooner?" she said to herself. The obvious answers were always the most elusive. Turning on her heel, Hermione strode back into the castle and stood in the entry way. She needed the assistance of House-elves, which of course was problematic, given most quaked in fear of her, and some downright ignored her. It was in the course of her work that Hermione discovered her SPEW reputation had traveled far beyond Hogwarts, much to her professional detriment.

Sometimes, House-elves could not resist responding if you called them by their names. Closing her eyes, she tried to recall the names she'd seen on the Great Map.

"Nit, Purl, and Noddy, I need your assistance."

In a flash, three utterly bewildered Hogwarts elves bedecked in the vestments of the laundry service appeared huddled together and bowed.

"Am I to understand there is no water in the castle?" she asked.

The elves looked to each other carefully while coming to a decision before the middle elf responded. "Nit doubts it, Mistress Granger. There isn't no water in the castle. Nit thinks all the waters been taken aways." His eyes were wide and solemn. He nodded gravely.

Hermione knelt down until she was eye-level with the three elves. It was a move that sometimes backfired with elves who were offended by wizards humbling themselves, but if it worked, these House-elves would forever answer her calls. Their orb-like eyes widened in surprise.

"I would like it very much if you could help me serve the castle," Hermione said sincerely. "We should work together to fix the castle's water problem. Can you help me?"

They took a moment to whisper to each other, the high-pitched squeak of their native language sounded other-worldly. Hermione caught just a few words that she knew: trust-worthy, loyalty, and bad-elf.

An agreement was reached and Nit spoke firmly, "We is helping Mistress Granger."

"Thank you. Purl, can you please round up all of the castle's kettles? Noddy, can you please round up all of the castle's buckets? Nit, will you please come with me?"

With a snap each elf took to their task, and soon Hermione's brilliant plan saw buckets of lake water coming into the Great Hall, thanks to the elves ability to Apparate in the castle. Lighting a fire in Summer was an uncomfortable prospect, but so was toilets that did not flush, hands that could not be washed, and most importantly professors missing their tea and coffee.

"Remember the kettle has to fully boil, Purl," Hermione instructed the younger elf, while she tended to the fire.

Severus strode in and took stock of her efforts. Hermione pushed a sweaty curl away from her brow.

"Having fun, Hermione?" he asked, handing her a fresh kettle of water.

"Oh, I just adore camping."

He snorted. "The Headmistress is ready to interview you now."

She stood up and wiped her hands along her leathers. "Of course she is. I'm a hot sweaty fright and I probably haven't got a moment to freshen up."

"You underestimate her if you think Minerva will care about your appearance when you're contributing to the castle."

"In that case I just hope we don't run into any of the female staff. I've provided enough gossip fodder as it is," she said tetchily, while trying to keep pace with his elongated gait.

"Why on earth would you give a fig what a bunch of stupid old cackling hens think? You've twice the brains and talents of the lot of them together. They're pacing up on the seventh floor hoping the Room of Requirement will create a giant swimming pool for them."

"How is the Room?" Hermione asked with a touch of concern.

"Still hopelessly broken."

They stood together before the guardian of Headmistress's staircase and paused.

"Did you just call me smart and talented?"

"I did," Severus replied, adjusting his frockcoat. "Ask me to repeat it again and I'll vehemently deny it. But that's enough dissembling, why would you care what they think of you?"

Hermione sighed wistfully. "I imagined coming back to Hogwarts would be different. Professors I clearly remember as thoughtful, considerate adults seem to act like children once school is out on hols. It feels like school has never even ended. I'm surrounded by cliques and clubs, and I don't even get to learn."

He stared down at her, exactly as he'd done years before. "Hermione," he said gently, "when you're young anyone older seems so much wiser and more mature. Surely you've already come to the conclusion that most adults are irresponsible idiots?"

"But not here…" Hermione groaned. The Ministry was full of lip-strumming mouth-breathers, but Hogwarts was supposed to be _different._ It was an institution.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. All illusions shatter in time." Addressing the guardian, Severus clearly enunciated, "Mountain Daisy."

The Headmistress was squinting over a particularly long roll of parchment when they came into her office. She motioned for them both to take a seat before resetting the Dictation Quill to the parchment roll. The quill would transcribe everything said in her interview. Minerva sat back in her chair and primly adjusted the silver wire glasses on her face.

"Mistress Granger," she began, "it is the testimony of Argus Filch that you caused the castle a great deal of pain yesterday by mucking about in the fluvial system. He accuses you of causing all the water to drain from the castle by unstoppering the Creekarch. How do you respond to this charge?"

" _Wait? What?_ He made me!" Hermione blustered, red-faced. "I didn't even want to go down there."

"Mistress Granger," Severus said gravely, stressing her title, "what precisely did you do to break the Creekarch? The fluvial system is very delicate."

"I didn't do anything to break it! I unstopped the backup from the other side." Her voice was rising in pitch as she felt Hogwarts closing ranks against her. "I never even touched your precious fluvial system."

"Come now, Mistress Granger," Minerva said with a clipped tone. "Think. There must have been something that you did to disturb the castle's delicate balance."

"Why do you think I did this? He's the one in this room who's playing with a Time Turner," she huffed, pointing an accusatory finger at Snape. "Now there's a delicate balance."

"You told her about that?" Minerva shot Severus a scathing look.

"I didn't say a word. Which causes one to wonder how you've come into this knowledge, Mistress Granger."

Hermione folded her arms in her lap and resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. "In third year, I used one so much I developed a sensitivity to them. I can feel every ripple of time."

"Turning sickness," Severus said, with new understanding. "Is it bad?"

"Like being on a small boat in a rough storm. It can be bad, but it quickly goes away."

The Headmistress observed them shrewdly for a moment. "Professor Snape will be questioned about his experimental activities, but do you have anything else you would like to add to your testimony, Mistress Granger? Is there anything that might have occurred in the Creekarch that could explain why the castle is now suddenly absent of all water?"

She shook her head. "I've no idea, Headmistress. All I did was go into the tunnel to discover the reason why the effluence was backing up. It turned out that the grate was blocked by a pair of nesting beavers. I safely relocated the beavers, using Ministry-approved standards of care, and cleared the dam to get the water flowing again."

"Beavers?" she said. "Why didn't anyone say so before?"

"Headmistress?" Hermione asked concerned.

"Granger, listen to me closely," Snape leaned forward in his chair and stared at her intently. "Can you get the beavers back?"

"I…" she stuttered. "I don't think so. They've been released in a wilderness preserve. It's the best place for them, really. And even if I could go back, I'm not certain I could find that exact pair of nesting beavers again."

"Oh heavens, Severus. This is a mess. If the castle doesn't get its beavers back, who knows how long this dry spell could last."

" _Its_ beavers?" Hermione asked. They continued on as if she hadn't even spoken.

"This could be worse than when all the windows disappeared," Minerva said horrified.

"Two weeks was nothing," Severus retorted. "And it was the only time Septima's paperweight collection has ever come in handy. This could be worse than the Terrible Term of Suddenly Slamming Doors."

"The castle has feelings," Hermione pronounced, finally catching on. "The castle misses the beavers."

"It would seem you relocated friends, Mistress Granger," Severus said softly.

"I could try to find the beavers," she volunteered weakly.

Minerva put her hand up. "I think not. They needed to be removed and you performed your duty admirably. Truthfully though, the castle hasn't been the same since the battle, and every term brings new challenges. If it's not beavers it will be something else. Rather than chasing after symptoms, what we must do is treat the problem directly."

She took off her wire rimmed glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. "I think in this case the two of you ought to work together. If Mistress Granger is particularly sensitive to Time Turners, she may be a great assistance to you, Severus."

"I agree, Headmistress," he murmured.

"Do you feel up to it, Hermione? You can always say no, particularly if you feel too sick to cooperate."

"Yes!" she blurted. "That is, I'd really like this opportunity."

"Very good. Now if you both don't mind, it has been a trying morning and I've still plenty more work to do before lunch is served. Given the circumstances, the House-elves are planning a meal of tinned sardines and mustard." She stood and relieved the Dictation Quill of its duty. Hermione and Severus stood and took their leave.

In the stairway to the main floor, Hermione itched to ask a million questions about her new project. "So how do we soothe the castle's feelings?" she began.

"Ah, well that is the question," he answered cryptically.

"You think you can heal the castle by turning back time?" she said incredulously. "You'll ruin history."

"Stop thinking so linearly, Miss Granger. There are other uses for Time Turners," he hissed. "And keep your damn voice down. This isn't made for Hogwarts gossip."

She quickly looked away. "I'm sorry," Hermione she said softer, remembering how even during Summer hols, everything in the castle was public. "When should I come by your office then? I'd love to get started on this project; I have so many questions. Do we meet every night or – "

"Come by later," he replied ambiguously.

Severus stalked off, his boots clicking along the empty corridor.

 _What on earth could be an alternate use for a Time Turner_ , was turning in her mind as she wandered back into the Great Hall to check on the progress of their water boiling project. She found the Matron standing over the hearth examining her kettles, while Nit, Noddy and Purl attempted to look small and blend in with the masonry.

"Is this all yours, Miss Granger?" Madam Pomfrey called out to her.

She nodded apprehensively. "And the House-elves. They've been an immense help."

"You're going to need a bit more help than a few elves." The Matron's eyes were keen and a hawkish as she appraised her gathered collection of kindling, kettles, buckets of lake water, and vats for collecting freshly boiled water.

Her vats currently sat empty. Every time a kettle slowly finished boiling, the water was whisked by elf to someplace else in the castle. She had no idea where it was all going to, but hoped it was being put to good use, and not being taken for some professor's bubble bath.

Poppy finished with great flourish the readings she was taking over each of her kettles and made a humming sound at her findings. "It's not ideal, but it will work, Mistress Granger," she said with an approving nod. "Well done."

"Thank you," Hermione beamed.

"We should open up the first floor classrooms and get more fires going. We're going to need a lot more water than this to keep everyone happy," she said decidedly. "I'll ask Professor Knack to help with transfiguring more buckets and kettles."

The Matron turned to her. "Don't worry Mistress Granger, I'll have everything well in hand. You can run along and finish your work."

"I.. uh…" Her eyes darted to the House-elves who had helped her. This was their project. They were bringing much-needed water to the castle. And suddenly, it felt like she was an errant student caught out in the hallways again, getting told to _run along. An adult is here. You can go about your business._

Was it any wonder Hogwarts made her feel inadequate as a witch?

"You're right Madam Pomfrey, I have the Owlery to muck out," she said with a sigh.

The elves were putting out an unappetizing lunch of tinned meats and fish that reminded Hermione far too much of time spent in the Forest of Dean than she preferred. Slipping two oranges into her pockets, she skipped lunch and headed out into the afternoon sun.

From behind a leaded glass window of the Headmaster's office, Minerva watched the pride of Gryffindor, her brightest star, and newest addition to her staff, advance across the green towards the West Tower intent on the Owlery. Even from afar, Hermione's determined gait was evidenced. Minerva quietly observed her square set shoulders, clenched fists, and fixed chin. Hermione was preparing for battle.

Minerva had done all she could for her favorite student by giving her a staff position, despite the protest of the Ministry, the objections of parents and the unflattering article in the Daily Prophet: SHAMELESSLY SMUTTY SECRETARY SEEKS TO SCANDALIZE SCHOOL!

The backlash had been immense, but Hogwarts always protected their own, and Minerva always fought for her Gryffindors. Which was why it bothered her that Hermione was not getting along.

Argus complained constantly. It was not something that she would ordinarily put much stock into, given that he liked to complain on the very best of days, but the Caretaker said Hermione simply showed no interest in the position. Professor Vector expressed doubt in Hermione's capabilities. Professor Grubbly-Plank worried she wouldn't be able to keep up with the needs of the school's creatures. And everyone had witnessed Hermione falling asleep on her first staff outing.

The key to getting on at Hogwarts was to make friends and to get involved in activities. Hermione Granger hadn't been back at the school for very long, but she hadn't shown any interest in connecting much with anyone. Minerva sighed heavily. She hoped throwing Hermione in with Severus's project wouldn't hinder her from finding friends.


	9. Chapter 8

**The Menagerie – Chapter Eight**

Hermione carefully trundled up the Owlery steps. In winter the staircase had a nasty habit of freezing over. Any student who wasn't watchful risked a trip to Madam Pomfrey. Even though it was yet early summer, Hermione remained cautious on the narrow steps.

She paused in her climb and took a moment to appreciate the scenery. A cool breeze touched the back of her neck and whipped her ponytail about. She had a good view of the school pitch and could see Rolanda busily working on repairs. A fountain of sparks showered the benches as Rolanda welded some broken bit to another. As the Keeper of the Keys and Grounds, assisting with the repair of the pitch was part of her responsibilities, but Hermione was eternally grateful the Flying Instructor had a firm hand on what she was doing. She didn't know the first thing about construction.

Movement caught her eye, and Hermione turned towards the path to Hogsmeade. Professor Grubbly-Plank was slowly wheeling a heavy cart towards the village. Hermione frowned. If she was not mistaken, the cart appeared loaded with barrels of single malt whiskey. Making a mental note to investigate it further, Hermione continued her ascent into the Owlery.

The school owls remained perched and unruffled by her presence in the tower. A lone owl trilled out _'Who cooks for you?'_ in greeting. Using a gentle voice, Hermione returned the 'Hello.' Her time in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had taught her a lot about establishing relationships of trust with creatures. Slowly, she made a circuit around the drafty room and allowed all eyes to inspect her. It was possible that some of the school owls had been at Hogwarts when she was a student, but that didn't mean they liked her. Hermione had earned a bit of a reputation for sending lengthy correspondence, and she couldn't remember any parchment that had been under three feet.

A rather indifferent barn owl chittered at her as she approached. From her pocket, Hermione withdrew a treat, and the barn owl openly reappraised her. His head bobbed in interest.

"You know," Hermione said conversationally. She glanced at the name placard on his perch. "You really shouldn't have these, Elmo. They're not at all good for you."

Clacking his beak, the owl told her she clearly didn't know what she was talking about.

Gingerly holding out the treat, Hermione continued. "They're full of crickets and fillers. Too many of them will give you digestive troubles." The barn owl gulped down the treat in one bite. High above, other owls moved about, trying to gain her attention and a treat. "What you need, is a nice fat field mouse."

Startled, the owl looked up at her in surprise. The other owls eagerly vocalized their agreement.

"You're a carnivore; you should be treated like a carnivore." Hermione cooed gently. She held out her fingers, and when the barn owl didn't object, she ran them lightly over his head and chin. "I promise, next time I'll bring a real treat."

Her position established, Hermione went about the task of sweeping the floors and replacing straw with surprisingly little fuss. Not a single owl grazed her head with their talons or nibbled at her fingers. With her most important task of the day accomplished, Hermione's mind wandered back to Snape's project.

Truthfully, it had been on her mind the entire day.

The last time she'd taken on a complex and compelling project, it was identifying Doxies as a threatened species. Protecting venomous Biting Fairies from extinction was the toughest sell of her life. Absolutely everyone in the Ministry had a can of Doxycide in their shed. Even her own department carried Doxycide in their field packs. Of course, with Shacklebolt's new Peace Accord, her law was likely repealed, but Hermione didn't want to dwell on her professional failures.

After finishing up in the Owlery, Hermione crept down into the dungeons. Of course, there was no reason for her to sneak around, but something about a secret project in the Potions Laboratory made her extra careful. The Potions Lab was empty. All the equipment from the school year was put away. Familiar benches, scarred with spilled potions and graffiti silently awaited the coming term.

She'd hoped to find him brewing in the classroom. Without fail, as a student she could find him stooped over a potions bench or prowling the hallways. The wizard had no appearance of a social life. Now that she was a staff member, Hermione understood why. Hermione paused at his door, apprehension momentarily holding her back. He hadn't given her a firm commitment about working on the potion, but they were supposed to be working _together_. At least, she reasoned, she could inquire about a time that worked with both of their schedules.

Given the circumstances, Severus had been remarkably pleasant the last time she showed up to his quarters unannounced. He could have handed her a potion for her head and pushed her out his door, but he'd allowed her to stay on his squashy couch. But there was no guarantee of such a repeat. Steeling herself against a nasty comment about her appearance, life choices, or competence, Hermione knocked.

Just when she'd given up on him answering his door, she heard muffled footsteps approach. The door opened, and an outstretched hand jerked her in. The door slammed closed.

Before Hermione had an opportunity to gather herself, she was thrust up against the doorframe, with Snape's long length fitted snugly against her body. Her lips parted in bewilderment and he seized the moment to press his soft lips to hers. The smell of peppermint and parchment invaded her senses. Moving her hands up to his shoulders, Hermione prepared to push him off.

She was well versed in women's self-defense and could protect herself if need be. His fingers pleasantly chased up and down her ribcage. In a quick somersault of mental gymnastics, Hermione concluded Snape was a good kisser, and while unexpected, she didn't mind much at all. Truth be told, as his tongue lightly touched hers, she rather enjoyed it.

Instead of pushing him off, Hermione eagerly wrapped her arms about his neck, happily clinging to his lean body. _'Gods,'_ she thought bemusedly. _'This is an unexpectedly warm welcome.'_

He deepened the kiss, tentatively exploring her mouth. And for the first time, Hermione tasted the tang of bitter citrus peels. Dazed and thoroughly snogged, Hermione pulled back, her lips only a breath apart from his.

"Professor," she whispered.

"Severus," he hoarsely corrected.

"Severus," she tried again, although now he'd moved on to the sensitive patch of skin beneath her ear. "What potion have you taken?"

Although not the expert he was, Hermione was still a dab hand at potions. Certain he was under the influence of some brew, Hermione could not in any good conscience continue to kiss him. Even though she wanted to.

Very much so.

Filing that particular bit of information in the back of her brain for later reflection, Hermione reluctantly removed the dazed and besotted professor from her person. Beneath heavily lidded eyes, and long dark eyelashes, his pupils were unnaturally enlarged. Hermione took notice of his flushed cheeks and smitten expression. He reached for her again and she steered him to the brown leather couch where he'd tended to her nights before.

A banged up trunk served as his coffee table. An innocuous looking phial and a girl's blue hair ribbon sat upon it.

"May I?" she asked, reaching for the potion.

Snape looked at her with a befuddled expression.

"This is the potion you took, yes?" she clarified.

Snape offered no help.

It must have been one of his personal brews because the label was written in a Potioneer's shorthand; bottle and expiration dates, batch number, and a variety of abbreviations. The potion smelled pleasantly of orange and evergreen.

"You idiot," Hermione muttered, finally grasping upon the situation.

Snape merely blinked.

Rememory was a delightful little potion that worked simply enough. It put users into a highly-suggestive trance, then an artifact from the past was used to trigger a memory the patient wished to relive. Doctors and therapists prescribed it to patients seeking closure or breakthroughs while they remained under strict supervision. The elixir could also be purchased from less trustworthy apothecaries by people seeking to hide in the past. St. Mungo's was full of addicts who could no longer distinguish reality from memory.

"Is this what you do in your free time?" she asked. The lazy smile he gave her was rather endearing. "I bet you make an adorable drunk too."

She offered him her hand and he readily took it, obediently following her into his bedroom.

"Here you go, Professor," she said, pulling back the bedcovers and giving them a pat. "I'd throw you in a cold shower, but I don't think the school has the water to spare."

"Severus," he absently corrected again.

"Severus," she plied sweetly, while tugging off his boots, "where is the research I need to start working on?"

"Journal's on the shelf." He gestured vaguely at the room. Bookshelves held ponderous tombs, scholarly work, and what appeared to be hundreds of potions journals. She took a step towards the direction of his haphazard gesture.

"Turners are under the bed," he slurred.

Hermione startled, her large mooncalf eyes widening. Beneath the bed? Like a child would hide? Moreover, did he say Turners – as in plural?

Momentarily abandoning the search for his journal, Hermione got on her hands and knees to have a look at what lay under Severus Snape's bed. He kept an odd assortment of chests and locked boxes beneath there, which was unsurprising. Potion Masters were notorious hoarders of bits and bobs to be mashed up, powdered, or liquefied.

Hermione pulled the closest chest to her. It pulsated beneath her fingers and she knew she had found the right one. The latch sprang easily beneath her fingers indicating the world's most infamous spy was losing his edge. Or, his wards were down and she wasn't supposed to be there. Hermione knew which scenario was more likely. Prying back the lid, Hermione gasped at the wide assortment of Time Turners tucked into the velvet-lined shelf.

"How?" she marveled.

It was obvious now how he'd survived the battle. Once upon a time, she'd been so certain she watched him die in front of her. Days later, when he and Draco turned up in the Infirmary to help Poppy with the wounded, Hermione had felt blindsided.

Her fingertips ghosting across the timepieces, she felt an answering tickle of recognition from them. She could tell the chest had another compartment and she eased back the shelf. If dozens of Time Turners was a shock, Hermione was completely unprepared for what lay beneath.

Three large glass bottles held granules of pure sand. They shimmered unnaturally, in a way that completely defied explanation. As far as she was aware, there was no precedence for this. Nobody had Time Turners anymore, and all the materials to make new ones had been destroyed. Except, she was looking right at it.

Naturally, there were competing theories about where the material came from, and Hermione was well-versed in the mythology. Every Hogwarts student had heard, _'When the first witch cast the first spell, it was so beautiful, she cried. Her crystal tears became the Sands of Time.'_ It was classic bedtime story fodder.

Arithimancers held that it was star dust from the earliest moments of our origins. They speculated that time repeated itself in a never-ending loop. Travelers could move back through time because it had neither beginning nor ending. Muggles called it eternal return. Hermione felt their similar ideas about Muggle physics and wizarding philosophy lent credence to the theory.

Wherever the dust came from, it was unlike anything else.

Oblivious to the many dark and piercing eyes resting on her, Hermione snapped up the chest and tucked it under her arm. While Snape detoxed, she had some reading to catch up on.

* * *

Severus turned in bed, conscious that his professional robes, now hopelessly wrinkled, were twisted up around his waist. In a foolish move, which felt like a hammer cracking the back of his skull, he sat up too quickly.

There was something else. Someone else.

Ye gads, had he snogged the new girl?

Severus groaned piteously. He rather suspected he had. No doubt she'd bolted, not that he blamed her. Your old Potions professor shoving his tongue down your throat had to be exceedingly traumatizing. If his old Potions professor had assaulted him like that... Severus shuddered. He just rather hoped they could keep the indiscretion between themselves. If Minerva got word of it, she'd use his bits as a kitty toy.

He should have realized Hermione would turn up at his door. Gryffindors ruined everything.

The summer hols were the only time he had to himself. Every winter, without fail, some poor Slytherin had some excuse for not going home. But over the summer, only faculty were allowed to stay over, which made it nearly perfect. If he spent three weeks with his head down over a cauldron and taking meals in his rooms, nobody blinked. If he wanted to play his music loud and get drunk, not a damn soul questioned it. And if he wanted to keep alive the small moments of his past which were worth remembering, no one could stop him. Except apparently Hermione Granger.

He had to find her quickly and apologize. There had to be some way to make amends. Sincere apologies weren't exactly his forte, but in this case, she deserved one.

The memory of their kiss resurfaced in his mind. She'd snogged him back, hadn't she? No, that part might have been fantasy. He remembered pulling her close to him, the press of her breasts against his chest. She felt small and delicate in his arms, and so indescribably soft. They way she'd dug her nails around his shoulders, gods she'd wanted him.

 _Had she?_

Severus shook his head. He had no idea. Memory, fantasy and reality blended together in a confusing blur. Very few women had actually ever wanted him. After the war some had sought him out, mostly the groupies and weirdos. Severus paused for a moment. Yes, Granger fit the weirdo definition. Any girl who'd willingly subjected herself to the company of that many ginger-headed Weasleys was a weirdo. Perhaps taking her to a nice restaurant with a good wine list would make for a nice apology?

Attempting to smooth down hopelessly wrinkled robes, Severus formulated a plan to search for Hermione. He surmised she hadn't immediately gone to the Headmistress, or Minerva would have ripped him out of bed and saddled him with supervising Hogsmeade weekends for the rest of his natural life. So, Hermione was somewhere in the castle. He'd try her hut first, and after that, the lonely and desolate high towers that were conducive to having a good cry. If she couldn't be found, he would have to assume she'd run off to South America in terror.

He found her in his sitting room.

Of course.

She was perched on his couch, her frizzy head buried in his potions journal and munching on shortbread cookies. Severus thought about growling at her for getting cookie crumbs in between his pages, but couldn't muster the energy. He was also fairly certain he owed her an apology.

Somewhere in the rules of conduct, in the _Professors in Pickle_ section, there was a bit about not sexually assaulting coworkers. If there wasn't, because Hogwarts could be somewhat archaic like that, there ought to be.

"Miss Granger," he attempted contritely, "I believe I owe you an apology. I know I can't make excuses for my behavior and I won't try to..."

She waved him off negligently. "What's this glyph stand for?" she interrupted.

"Look, I'm trying my best to apologize to you." He rasped the back of his hand across his jaw, feeling the day's stubble. He should return when he could be more presentable to her. He realized he looked like a sight in rumpled robes and disheveled hair. It was not his best apology.

She looked up from his pages with an open expression. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His jaw snapped shut. No, he absolutely did not want to talk about it.

"You were high," Hermione said absently. "There's not much to forgive. What's this glyph stand for?"

"High!" he squawked. "I was _not_ high," he stated in a more dignified tone. "Potions professors do not get high. I'm a fully licensed and credentialed potioneer. I was responsibly testing the efficacy of a brew in the privacy my own home when you invaded it."

She shrugged. It was a maddening little half-shrug that seemed to convey disinterest _and 'you were high'_ at the same time.

"Miss Granger -"

"I'd prefer it if you called me Hermione seeing you've asked me to call you by your given name." She batted her eyelashes dramatically. "Twice."

Seven hells, he'd never live this down.

"Oh, give me that." Irritated, Severus snatched his book from her hands. She'd been through his belongings. He knew as much. Hermione Bleeding Granger couldn't leave well enough alone. Of course she poked and pried. He wondered if he might as well give her the combination to his wall safe and show her where he kept his teddy bear.

"Unforeseen irregularity," he harrumphed, handing her back his journal.

"Unforeseen irregularity?" she mused. "But all of the experiments have this notation! How are you unable to predict what will happen by this point? Well, that means the formula is-"

"- a failure," he finished for her.

"I was going to use the word unstable," she said quickly.

"Which does nothing to diminish the fact that a potion that cannot observably produce the same results each time is a failure, and we both know it."

"How different have the results been?"

Hermione pursed her lips in a way that drew his attention to them. For a fleeting moment he was reminded of the feel of them moving insistently against his. He shook himself free of those disturbing thoughts, flicking them easily away like a beetle's eye across a potions bench. He did not need the woman distracting him.

His life was decidedly less complicated than it had been during the war, but he was still not free from duty. He was responsible for bringing so much damage upon the school. He'd been the Headmaster who fled in battle. The hex stains slowly fading about the castle was a testament to his inability to keep Hogwarts safe. It was his obligation to fix the damage he caused. Hermione Granger was just another complication.

With exceeding amounts of patience, Severus prepared to explain a rather convoluted progress involving the shifting sands of time, the Hogwarts castle, and Theoretical Potionry. Instead he gave up and shrugged.

"It's a different unforeseen event each time." That was as good as an explanation as any.

"Oh?" she challenged with a quirked eyebrow. "Show me."


End file.
